#no ohio doesn't count

[welshite]

If Alice In Wonderland would've been written today it'd have been Alice in Florida instead.

[lushlovers]

arms, J. Burrow

summary; as joe's preparing for the upcoming season he just gets thicker and thicker in all the best ways

warnings; a little subby joe😋, smut, oral (m receiving), little slut-shaming, pet names, teasing gaaaassssppppp.

word count; 950

note; okay, he's been looking extra good and I just wanna eat him all the way up, I hate this, the abrupt ending yuck, nd also dunno how it went the way it did but it happened so...

"Can you put me in a headlock, baby?" Joe choked on the bite he had just taken, not only at what you'd just said but at the look of pure seriousness on your face. He's still in that tight in all the right places sleeveless shirt, shorts that made his ass look incredible, and the snap-back that had the perfect amount of his hair falling onto his forehead. It's taken you months to get him to grow his hair back out finally and now that you've succeeded you're begging to pull at it while your legs close around his head every chance you get.

After his miniature coughing fit comes to an end you're smiling at him ever so innocently from across the kitchen as he sips his water eyeing you curiously, "I'm sorry, but that's an interesting, request, sweet girl," you shrug, still keeping this faux naive demeanor, and the bedroom eyes you're throwing his way has jokingly him shaking his head and rolling his pretty eyes.

Kissing your teeth as you walk around the counter revealing the fact that your legs are bare in contrast to the sweatpants you were wearing when he had first got home is now an afterthought, he cocks his head slightly to the left, raising his eyes brow, "what brought this on?" However, he's not entirely shocked this is an everyday thing. Holding his welcoming hands out and spreading his legs for you to tuck yourself into him, which of course, you do. "just the slutty, compression shirt, tight shorts combo, also tiktok edits!" you state completely honest, leaning into him and when he doesn't reply with anything other than a snort, you find yourself kissing up his neck, to his jawline, and back down till you meet his shoulder searching for even the slightest reaction.

He sighs, soaking in the feeling of your lips and tongue moving sloppily over the delicate, sensitive spot on his neck that you locate out of sheer muscle memory, absolutely sucking a dark hickey into the skin running along his jugular, "It's not a no, mama. Whatever you want, wanna make you happy." Now, you're smiling against him at just how breathless he sounds over a few sloppy kisses, "No one makes me happy like you, Joey."

as your lips find themselves grazing his bare shoulder, you lace your fingers together, "We better head upstairs, 'fore my mom and dad get here for dinner," when your eyes meet his you find that they've glazed over and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. Suddenly it is so damn hot in here, feeling like you need to come in and get some air conditioning after hours in the Ohio sun.

Whatever you were making, now somehow you have completely forgotten what it was, is in the oven, you two have a bit of time and you will be using every millisecond of it to your advantage. Before you both know it, you're on your knees in front of him running your palms lightly over the tent in his shorts as he sits on the edge of the bed watching even your tiniest of movements. He takes the hat he has been wearing and gently places it atop your head, smiling down at you and your teasing fingers, lifting his hips into your touch.

He catches on to the slight tug at his shorts and lifts his lower half for you to remove both items of clothing separating you from his dick, you watch intently as his face contorts and his abdominals flex when your hand wraps around him. He groans from deep in his chest and you absentmindedly press your thighs together, "More, please."

His tone and actions completely radiate submission, and it's rare to see this side of him, and you sure as hell relish in that as you spit in your palm, focusing your attention on the tip alone as he ruts against your hand searching for just a bit more. Using both hands now, one on his cock and the other raking your nails down his thighs leaving goosebumps in your wake. You keep up your teasing and Joe's lost all control, completely unable to sit still and the only thing leaving his mouth is stuttery, 'so good's, moans, and grunts.

The sound of the oven beeping downstairs falls on deaf ears but the obnoxious timer that sounds from your phone does not, completely breaking you from the trance you had seemed to be in, "Oh, there's dinner, maybe you should freshen up, sweetheart," You stand above him momentarily awaiting his reaction, as his jaw goes slack, "baby, two minutes, please? Was so close." Shaking your head, you slip into the walk-in closet finding one of his college football tees and some sweatpants.

"Mom and Dad, remember, Joey?" Upon your exit you find him tugging up his briefs as he heads in the direction of the shower going out of his way to avoid even your hands brushing his, you catch him by his shirt pulling him back toward you, "Tonight, I'll make it all up to you, I pinky promise," poking out your smallest finger, waiting for him to loops his with yours and he does. You step up on your toes to kiss him on his lips, then his cheek, his chin, his jaw, and just before you make it to his collarbone, he grabs your waist pulling you back to prevent any further torture, "'Kay tonight, you fuckin' tease."

As you descend the stairs and head into the spacious kitchen, you hear the shower turn on and exhale a breath you didn't know you had been holding in. Coming to the realization that you both managed to receive the short end of the stick this time, you've gotta finish cooking something nice enough for his mother and he needs a cold, cold shower.

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Spencer Reid x Read fic. Reid and Reader are friends, like best friends. Reader is always offering Reid donuts and listening to his fun facts and info dumps. It's one of those, they both like each other, but also are convinced the other doesn't like them.

Spencer is taking care of a slightly drunk reader whose grandmother called and asked why they're not engaged when they're younger sibling is married and expecting a child. At some point Spencer makes his ever classic comment about how it's safer to kiss and drunk reader, before being able to think, kisses Spencer. I hope that made sense.

OOPS I DID EXACTLY THAT

Safer to Kiss (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Word Count: 2899

Warnings: Mentions of food, drinking alcohol, mild cursing, outdated expectations of women, and lots of pining

A/N: Hi I wrote this in 2 hours and was extremely entertained, please enjoy and if you send me a fic request I'll probably do it bc this is my hyperfixation hobby right now and very much keeping the demons at bay xD @bxm-1012 thank you for dropping by my inbox! I am VERY tempted to make a part 2 of this, I hope you enjoy! c:

-----

The whole expiration date thing that women faced was, in your humble opinion, complete and utter bullshit. Here you were, slowly approaching thirty (definitely still told people you were twenty-five, when, in fact, you were actually twenty-eight), and the biological clock was ticking. No, you didn’t want kids. Not right now, anyway. Not when you were only two years into your career as a profiler for the FBI’s prestigious Behavioral Analysis Unit. Not when you still had tons of things to check off your bucket list - go to Europe, visit an independent bookstore in every state, pilot a helicopter. 

And you didn’t buy into that whole ‘once a woman hits thirty, her stock plummets’ crap. Not usually, anyway. 

But Nan’s phone calls always left you questioning your existence. 

Back home in Ohio, your little sister, Kendra, had just announced her pregnancy. Three years younger than you (ironically, the age you told everyone you were), and married to a power plant manager, Kendra was living the dream of a woman from the 1950s. You tried your best not to look down on it, to wish for more for her - but Kendra was happy. She’d always wanted to be a mother, and you couldn’t imagine anyone better suited for the role. There was nothing wrong with wanting to be a wife and a mother, to devoting one’s life to it. You reminded yourself of that every time you spoke to Kendra. You especially reminded yourself of it every time you spoke to Nan. 

That sympathetic tone your grandmother used when she said, “Oh, Button, you’ll find someone eventually, and you’ll be just as happy as Kenny” was like nails on a chalkboard. You resisted the urge to gag into your speakerphone and simultaneously rip your grandmother a new one. You wanted so badly to explain to her that you were perfectly fulfilled with your life. 

You helped lock up bad guys on a weekly basis, you wanted to remind Nan. Your brain was one of few that had been chosen for a task force that caught criminals based on their behavior. It was amazing, working for the BAU, bouncing ideas off of your colleagues, finding a family within this small group of people that spent more than forty hours a week together. 

Nan didn’t see it that way. She wanted you to be just like Kendra. She wanted you to have that white picket fence in the suburbs, with a broad-shouldered husband and two little tykes running at your feet. Domestic bliss just wasn’t in the cards for you, you’d decided. And that was okay.

You were still reeling from your conversation with Nan the night before when you walked in to work on Monday morning. It was Derek who caught the raging RBF first. “Woah, pretty girl. Pump. Your. Brakes.” He said, halting you just as you entered the BAU’s bullpen, holding a hand up to stop you. 

“Good morning to you, too, Derek,” You flashed him a phony grin, and he rolled his eyes. 

“And you’re grumpy this morning… why, exactly?” Derek asked, turning to walk beside you, essentially escorting you to your desk. 

“Because I’m allowed to be?” You proffered, shrugging your shoulders, not really wanting to talk about it with him. You loved Derek - hell, you loved all your coworkers - but he was not the person you wanted to go to with these thoughts. You didn’t really want to talk to anyone about it, actually. You just wanted to ride the cranky train until it came to a complete stop. 

Emily was returning from the kitchenette with a fresh mug of coffee and decided that the conversation concerned her as well. “What’s going on?” she asked. 

“Y/L/N’s wearing her cranky pants this morning,” Derek filled her in. 

“Oh, those so don’t match your blouse, Y/N,” Emily teased, winking at you with a smirk before looking at Derek. “Cut her some slack. No one likes Mondays.” Derek held up his palms defensively. “Alright, alright. Forgive me for being a concerned citizen.” 

“It’s appreciated,” You told Derek genuinely before setting your bag down at your desk. “But unnecessary.” 

It wasn’t until later in the morning, around ten, that anyone bothered you about your obvious bad mood again. This time it was Spencer, the one person you couldn’t possibly be annoyed with. He rolled on his desk chair around the partition that separated your workspaces, holding his hand out expectantly, like he usually did this time of day. 

Without speaking, you opened the bottom drawer of your desk and pulled out the white bag of mini powdered donuts that you always kept in stock. They were your guilty pleasure snack, and one of the first things you and Spencer bonded over when you started at the BAU two years ago. That, and the fact that you were the closest agents in age, was how you got along so well so quickly. Over several cases, varying in degrees of intensity, you and Spencer became really great friends. Best friends, actually. 

There wasn’t anyone else in your life that you trusted more than Spencer Reid. 

You opened the bag of powdered donuts and shook one haphazardly into Spencer’s palm, then grabbed one for yourself. Silently, you cheers-ed your donuts together, and ate them simultaneously, making weird-but-comfortable eye contact as you did. 

“Derek says you’re in a bad mood today,” Spencer pointed out with a teasing smirk on his face. A smirk, and white sugar blanketing his upper lip.

“Derek’s full of shit,” you grinned after swallowing your snack, the smile on your face totally facetious. “I’m extremely happy.” 

“I can tell,” Spencer snickered as you set the powdered donuts back in your snack drawer, closing it with a clank. You watched as he brought both of his legs up into his desk chair, crossing them like a kindergartner. 

The action made your stomach flutter. You’d felt strongly about Spencer for a really long time, probably a year and half, if you had to try and pinpoint it. But there was no use in going down that road with him. For one thing, he was your best friend, and you didn’t want to risk flushing the best relationship in your life down the toilet. For another thing, you knew it was one hundred percent impossible that he could feel the same way. 

“What’d you do this weekend?” Spencer asked, and you could tell by the question that he was trying to discover the source of your poor attitude. 

“Stayed home, caught up on chores,” You said, crossing your knees and leaning back in your seat, your expression telling him that you knew exactly what he was doing. As much fun as playing mind games with Spencer was, you decided to throw him a bone. “Spoke to my grandmother on the phone last night.” 

Spencer nodded understandingly. “Say no more,” he said with a chuckle. “She gave you the whole ‘when are you going to get married’ spiel again?” 

You nodded. “Unfortunately. I usually don’t let it bother me, but for some reason it’s just, like, lurking in the back of my mind today.” You shrugged your shoulders and exhaled through your nose. “What about you?” You asked. 

“What about me?” Spencer arched a brow, and you rolled your eyes playfully. 

“What’d you do this weekend?” 

“Oh,” Spencer began, pursing his lips for a moment, like he was hesitant to tell you. “I actually went on a date.” 

Your stomach flipped. “Oh yeah?” You choked out, forcing a smile. “Who with?” 

“That girl, Lisa, from the coffee shop, the one you told me wouldn’t stop ‘ogling my boy band hair’,” Spencer held up air quotes when he repeated your words from memory.

You recalled the cute barista from the coffee shop just down the highway from Quantico, a popular morning stop for agents on their way to work. You tried to stop the jealousy from turning your blood into fire. “How was it?” You asked, trying to resist the urge to sit on the edge of your seat, trying not to hang on his every word. 

Spencer shrugged his shoulders. “It was okay. She was very nice, but there just wasn’t…” he trailed off, gesticulating as the words failed to come to that supercomputer brain of his. 

“It was like a donut without powdered sugar on it?” You suggested with a small chuckle.

“Yeah,” Spencer agreed, nodding, meeting your eyes and smiling, mildly amused. “Exactly.” 

Spencer went back to his desk a few minutes later, and the rest of the day went on. It was quiet, especially for a day at the BAU. There were, weirdly enough, no open cases right now, so you spent the day catching up on paperwork, which there was always plenty of. 

You caught the elevator about ten minutes after five with Spencer in tow, and you held the door open for him. It was just the two of you as you made the descent from the sixth floor, and Spencer leaned against the back wall. “Plans tonight?” He asked. 

“Not really, no,” You said, shaking your head. “Why, you want to do something?” You asked. 

Spencer nodded. “There’s this landscape and nature photography exhibit at one of the galleries downtown,” he said. “Might be fun. There’s this artist, Milton Harvell, who takes photos of renowned locations around the world but zooms in on an obscure detail and gives the framed photograph to the person who correctly guesses the location.” 

You smiled slowly at that. You loved it when Spencer went off on one of his tangents. You found it completely adorable. “It’s actually quite fascinating,” Spencer went on, an amused tone lining his voice, making it sound lighter. “Kind of like a Where’s Waldo, but in reverse. There was this one photograph he took of the Louvre in Paris, but he zoomed in really tightly on a young boy enjoying an ice cream cone. He even went so far as to edit the photograph to make it look like it was a different time of day. The four thousand and eighth person to view the photograph was the person who guessed the correct location.” Spencer’s head bobbed and he was smiling like an idiot. 

God, you were down bad. 

“Was the four thousand and eighth person… you?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him scrupulously and allowing a teasing grin to cross your face. 

“The photo’s hanging in my living room,” he confirmed. 

You laughed softly. “Will there be alcohol at this function?” You asked him, and he nodded. 

That was all you needed to hear. 

— — —

You and Spencer went straight to the art gallery from work, sharing a cab rather than bothering with your cars. You immediately bought a glass of red wine, and began to follow him around the gallery. You weren’t an art aficionado, not by any means, but you enjoyed looking at beautiful things, and you especially enjoyed spending time with Spencer that wasn’t hunched over a dead body or trying to map out a killer’s comfort zone. It was a rare occurrence, so you tried to soak it all up as much as possible. 

Plus, your Nan’s words were still lingering in the back of your head. It’ll happen for you someday, Button. Men just don’t find you strong, career types attractive. Maybe you should soften up your look a little. 

You downed your first glass of wine within ten minutes, and caught one of the catering staff passing out champagne almost instantaneously after. The champagne fizzled down your throat as you strolled with Spencer through the art gallery, listening intently as he went on about each piece, rattling off whatever contextual knowledge he had. But you were a little bit biased; you could listen to him list different types of soil and find it interesting. 

After the glass of champagne came another glass of champagne, and by the time you made it to the main exhibit Spencer wanted to see, your cheeks were flushed. It wasn’t that you couldn’t hold your alcohol; rather, it just made you a little bit silly. Your inhibitions were lowered, just like it would affect anyone. But with your arm looped through Spencer’s and your Nan’s nagging message still in the back of your mind, you were perhaps a little more loose than usual. 

As Spencer examined the exhibit, you tapped your foot, unable to keep still, and scanned the open space. Your eyes landed on another patron of the gallery, a conventionally handsome man about your age, and you found yourself unlooping your arm from Spencer’s, subconsciously not wanting to appear taken. 

“Are you gonna go talk to that guy?” Spencer asked, and you snapped your eyes back to his. “Because you can, if you want to. Don’t let me stop you.” 

It was almost like he was daring you to. Spencer’s jaw seemed tense as you examined his expression, the way his gorgeous brown eyes darted from the man and back to you. “You don’t mind?” You asked, arching a brow, almost like a challenge.

Spencer shook his head, his lips pursed. “Not at all. I’ll wait here for you?” 

You nodded, and turned towards the man. There wasn’t any harm in getting a guy’s number, right? Your feelings for Spencer were a lost cause, anyway. Plus, as Nan liked to point out, you weren’t getting any younger. 

The man’s eyes locked on yours and he seemed to understand that you were about to speak with him. He met you halfway, and you shook his hand. “Malcolm Greene,” he introduced himself, and you spouted off your own name in return. “You’re not here with that guy?” He asked, jerking his chin over to Spencer. Your eyes followed Malcolm’s, and you saw Spencer with his body turned towards the photography exhibit, but his head turned to the side, as if he were keeping an eye on you with his peripheral vision. 

“Yeah, I am,” you said, and Malcolm’s head inclined to the side. “I am. I’m here with that guy,” you panicked, suddenly realizing in that moment that you weren’t interested in speaking with Malcolm. No, you had absolutely no interest in spending your time with any other man but Spencer Reid. “I just, uh…” Your cheeks flushed, and you stifled an awkward laugh, anxiously trying to come up with some excuse. “I came over here to tell you that your shoe was united.” 

Your eyes followed Malcolm’s down to his shoes, which were loafers. Laceless loafers. Malcolm’s mouth opened as if to point this out to you, but you managed to stammer words out first. “Ok, well, have a great night, goodbye!” You turned on your heel and marched back over to Spencer, your cheeks red as you reached out for his arm. 

Spencer furrowed his brows down at you as your arm gripped his. “I need another glass of wine,” you confessed. 

Twenty minutes later, after two more glasses of wine and a very watchful eye out for Malcolm, you and Spencer left the art gallery. You were awfully giggly on the cab ride back to your place, cracking puns and humming along to the radio intermittently. Spencer seemed to be amused, but more so concerned with getting you home in one piece. 

As he walked you up the stairs to the door of your apartment building, he was teasing you about your conversation with Malcolm, which you still hadn’t told him completely about. “I still can’t believe you didn’t get his number. You were talking with him for exactly two minutes and twelve seconds. What, in that short of an amount of time, could have turned you off to him so quickly?” He pondered aloud, a playfully mocking tone lining his voice. 

“Listen, I shook his hand! I had my fun!” You exclaimed, bursting into laughter as you leaned against the handrail of the stairs that led up to the door. “Good, clean fun!” 

“You know, the number of pathogens that are passed during a handshake is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss someone,” Spencer rattled off, and your eyes snapped to meet his. 

You don’t know what took you over. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way the street lamps reflected in the irises of his eyes, or how you stood just a few inches away from him. Maybe it was his stupid tweed blazer, how he looked like a tenured art history professor despite barely being thirty years old. Maybe it was the way he smelled like pine and printer ink, a combination you wouldn’t have ever thought was attractive. 

But when Spencer said that, you stood up on your toes and kissed him. It was slow and innocent at first, until it passed the border into lingering, and Spencer’s hands found your hips, pulling your body closer to his. There was a cool night breeze that filtered through the space between your bodies, and by the time you pulled your lips away from Spencer’s, and slowly opened your eyes, you were completely red in the face and breathless. 

No, that certainly wasn’t the safest choice you could have made.

——

read part 2 here

[freedomfireflies]

Stuck With You*

Summary: You and Harry have been assigned to a case halfway across the country. And getting stuck for over twelve hours in a car with him is nothing short of excruciating.

But having to share a bed with him?

A fate worse than death.

(aka: enemies to lovers + one bed trope!)

Word Count: 7.7k

*Contains Mature and Explicit content! Take care of yourself first, only consume what you feel comfortable with!*

BAM!

The violent sound of the car door being slammed is what jolts you from your nap, weary eyes fluttering quickly as you sit up in the rather uncomfortable chair.

You aren't sure how long you've been asleep but from the lack of light outside, you guess quite a while.

So, in an effort to assess your location, you lean forward to peer through the windshield at the bright, neon sign shining just above you.

Roadside Motel and Inn.

Slowly, the pieces begin to come together as you yawn and roll your head back to relieve some of the tension in your neck.

You and Harry have been on the road for exactly twelve hours. 

Twelve long, excruciating hours filled with bad rock music, limited snack breaks, and arguments over which part of the map to follow.

Harry doesn’t obey directions very well, something that became abundantly clear when he threw the map out of the window somewhere back in Ohio.

You have to smirk to yourself at the memory of his little tantrum before you realize...he's not in the car with you.

Curious as to where he went, you look back out the window just in time to see him slipping into the lobby of the motel, that familiar, sour scowl still set firmly on his face.

He must be going to book a room for the night, and you feel rather relieved to be calling it quits for the day.

Although, this motel doesn't look all that...safe. Or sanitary. In fact, it kind of looks like the motel in a horror movie where they'd find a dead body.

But, you aren't in a position to complain, so you lean back in your seat and wait for Harry to return with a room key.

However, after five minutes has passed and Harry has yet to return, you realize that something must have gone wrong.

And knowing Harry…it's a pretty safe bet.

So, you retie your shoes, zip up your jacket, and slip out of the car.

You can hear the aggravated arguing before you’ve even reached the lobby door. And you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes when the sound of Harry’s seething retort echoes into the parking lot.

“You aren’t fucking hearing me,” Harry is growling as he leans across the counter. “Two rooms. That’s all. I don’t fucking care about bed sizes or furnishings. I don’t fucking care if the TV is on the goddamn ceiling. Just give me the fucking keys.”

The poor man behind the counter looks absolutely exhausted with him (a feeling you know well) as he waves his hands in front of his computer. “I don’t have two rooms available, sir. I only have the one. One room. One queen-sized bed. One TV on the floor.”

Harry slams his palm against the desk with malice as you rush forward to intervene.

“Hi. I am…so sorry about my friend,” you begin hesitantly, pinching Harry’s hip in warning. “But, um…are you sure you don’t have any other rooms with two beds? No matter the size? We aren’t picky, really, we just…we’ve had a long day. And we’d really appreciate anything you can give us.”

The man’s eyes soften while Harry scoffs.

“Sorry, Miss,” the desk attendant sighs. “Just one room with one bed.”

“I don’t fucking believe you,” Harry begins again, tossing a vengeful glare across the counter. “There’s no way every other room is booked up but that one. What do you want, huh? You want money? Is that what it’s gonna take? Fine. How much fucking money is it gonna take for you to give us a key to a room with two beds?”

With a sigh, the worker says, “Sir…there are no more rooms. I don’t know what else to tell you—”

“You fucking prick. You think you can just con us out of another room because it’s the last minute—”

“Sir. No room in the inn. I don’t know what else to say—”

“Oh, you won’t say fucking much with my fist down your throat—”

“Okay, all right, let’s calm down,” you interject, wrapping your hands around Harry’s upper arm to tug him away from the desk. “We’ll take any room you have. Please.”

The charged silence seems to span an eternity as the desk attendant goes to retrieve a key.

And as he does, Harry rips his arm from your grasp while viciously whispering, “I had it covered.”

You snort. After all, you both know that’s not true. 

Once you’re officially checked in, Harry storms for the exit, nearly breaking the glass in the lobby door as he slams it open and shut. 

You follow a few feet behind, desperate to put some distance between you and his unjust wrath.

But, even still, you don’t miss his aggravated grumbling as he stomps back to the car, griping and cursing about, “Shitty fucking motels,” and “sleezy assholes with a stick up their arse.”

You suppose it would almost be funny if you weren’t dreading having to spend a night with him. In fact, you’re almost tempted to offer to sleep in the car but…well, you hate those fucking seats.

Harry is already unpacking your things by the time you reach him, tossing items left and right as he attempts to retrieve what you’ll need for the night.

He finds your duffle, yanking it from the backseat before nearly hauling it at you as you catch it and go stumbling back.

Then, he pulls his own backpack free before slamming yet another door shut.

With that, he leads you to your room, booted feet stomping across the concrete as you trail behind. 

It takes him about five minutes to figure out how to even get inside, large fingers fumbling with the keys as he growls and nearly shoves his fist through the door.

Once you’re inside, he flips on the light, and you both take a moment to assess its condition.

The queen-sized bed is more like a full. The wallpaper is faded and peeling. The smell is…unplaceable. The carpet is stained and dingy. The TV (which is not on the ceiling) is at least forty years old. And the bathroom has no door. 

And seriously, what is that smell?

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Harry huffs under his breath, backpack dropping to the floor. “No. Absolutely fucking not. Not happening.”

“Look, we don’t really have a choice, do we?” you argue as you move for the bed to study its condition. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and the next hotel isn’t for miles.”

“So?” he sneers, moving his glare to you. “S’better than this.”

“This is fine,” you retort, but wince as you say it. “Yeah, it’s not…great. But we’re only here to sleep and then we’re back on the road.”

“No,” he decides, arms crossing as he shakes his head. “Uh-uh. Not fucking happening, I’ll sleep in the parking lot.”

“Okay, great. Buh-bye, then,” you call, waving your hand through the air as if to dismiss him.

His eyes narrow. “He lied, by the way.”

Turning around, you gingerly lower yourself onto the mattress, expression scrunched as you make contact.

Ew.

“Uh…who?” you ask, rather distracted by the somewhat moist duvet beneath your ass.

Seriously, why the fuck is it wet?

“The owner,” Harry snaps, head jerking toward the door. “When he went to get the key, there was another fucking key right next to it. For the master suite.”

“…okay?”

He seems rather unimpressed with your answer. “Seriously?”

“What?” you huff as you stand back up. “Maybe it’s his room.”

“It’s not,” he decides haughtily. “No, he doesn’t fucking sleep here. ’Cause even he knows this place is a fucking dump. All right, satan’s asshole is cleaner than this room.”

Your nose crinkles. “Ew.”

“Exactly. So, get your fucking stuff and let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“To the master suite, are you not fucking listening?”

“Harry,” you nearly scoff. “We don’t have a key. Okay, and even if we did, that’s…you know, illegal…I think.”

“God, you are such a fucking pussy,” he hisses, already spinning around to return to the door. “Fine. Fucking stay here. I don’t care. Sleep with the cockroaches while they make babies in your ear.”

You gasp as he disappears into the parking lot, the rather unsettling image in your head making your muscles recoil.

Ew, ew, ew.

You don’t know where he’s gone. Perhaps to argue with the owner again or perhaps to sneak into the other room.

But you don’t worry about him. Instead, you worry about what he said. About bugs, and babies, and them crawling into your ear, and mold, and bedbugs, and termites, and—

You fling yourself toward the door, duffle bag in tow as you slip from the room, nearly running into Harry on your way out.

He’s already returned, a key now spinning around his pointer finger as he nods at you. “Changed your mind, I take it?”

You exhale a deep breath. “Did you at least pay for the room?”

“What do you think?” he snorts. “Fucking waited till he went to the bathroom and snatched it.”

“Harry, he’s gonna notice the key is missing.”

“No he’s not. I put the old key in its place.”

You lean back. “Oh. That’s…smart.”

“Yeah. Thanks for sounding so fucking surprised,” he grumbles before brushing past you toward the stairs. 

“Come on, that’s not what I—” You begin but stop when you realize arguing with him is rather futile.

Instead, you follow after him toward the second floor of building as he leads you toward the end, where only one room lies. 

He manages to get this door open a little quicker and once it swings open, your eyes widen.

It’s not the Hilton, but it’s a hell of an upgrade. The room is significantly larger, it doesn’t smell like ass, and the bed is huge. At least a king, you imagine, if not bigger. With what looks to be fresh, clean sheets and even a nice throw blanket.

Harry grumbles something about, “Now that’s more fucking like it,” as you both continue into the massive space to look around.

There’s a mini bar, two TVs, and a nice vanity in the corner. The wallpaper isn’t stained, the carpet is soft, and this bathroom has a door.

“Shit,” you breathe as you practically levitate toward the mattress. “Okay…I hate to say it, but…you were right. This is…so much better.”

“I know,” he deadpans, tossing his backpack toward the floor before moving for the couch placed just across from the bed. “Okay, I’m going to sleep. We’re leaving at eight. Try not to fucking bother me until then, yeah?” 

With that, he flops down onto the sofa, eyes falling shut as he settles back into the cushions.

A little surprised, you stare at him, curious as to why he’s chosen to sleep on the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the room. In fact, the floor would likely be more relaxing.

However, his expression remains placid, most likely aware of your presence but refusing to acknowledge it. “Go away now,” he mumbles without ever glancing up. “Stop fucking hovering and go the fuck to sleep.”

And you’d likely argue or remind him again of how unpleasant he tends to be but choose instead to obey as you head for the bathroom. After all, you are tired, and tomorrow you have yet another long day of traveling ahead.

With him. And his outrageously hostile temperament.

Once you’ve changed into some pajamas, you exit the tiny bathroom and scurry to the bed. It’s still winter outside, and even though this is the master suite, they apparently haven’t mastered heat.

The covers are thin, hardly adding even one degree of warmth. You tug the throw blanket further up and curl yourself into a ball, hoping to find some relief from the shivering of your teeth but to no avail. 

You have no idea how Harry isn’t freezing his ass off but can’t exactly focus on him as you begin to lose feelings in your toes. And now, the large bed seems to be working against you since all it does is provide you with more space to be cold in. And even if you wanted to readjust, you’d lose the spot of warmth you’ve created, forcing you to get stuck with the cold sheets once again.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Harry suddenly growls, and you vaguely see the outline of his body as he straightens up from the couch.

Curious, you sit up as he stalks over to you, his large hand coming out to snatch onto the blankets and rip them back.

“Shit,” you breathe, recoiling away from the frigid air. “The fuck are you doing—”

“You won’t stop fucking shaking and it’s fucking annoying,” he snaps as he climbs onto the mattress beside you. “Move.”

A tad stunned, you blink at him. “I—seriously, what are you doing—”

“I’m trying to get some goddamn sleep,” he huffs, as if it were obvious. “But I can’t with your fucking teeth making so much goddamn noise. So, I’m gonna fucking hold you until you stop shivering.”

“Like hell you are,” you snort, already wiggling away from him. “The whole fucking point of us finding another room was so that we didn’t have to share a bed. Remember?”

“Yeah, well, that was before your teeth started doing the tango,” he retorts. “Now shut the fuck up and cuddle me.”

“I—Harry. I’m not going to cuddle you, that’s gross—”

“Oh, grow up. God, you are so fucking dramatic. We’re adults—”

“Yeah, but we’re not in fucking Twilight. Okay, Jacob? I don’t need your doggy heat to warm me up—”

“My doggy heat? The fuck does that even mean? I wasn’t gonna hold you doggy style—”

“Yeah, ’cause you’re not gonna hold me at all—”

“For fuck’s sake,” he seethes for a second time before his arm is extending across the space between your bodies to latch onto your hip and drag you closer.

You don’t have the time to protest before your face is being squished into his chest as he pulls the blankets back up. 

Your brain is the next thing to freeze as you take a moment to comprehend what the fuck just happened.

And why you aren’t fighting it.

Because much to your dismay…he’s right. Again. Instantly, this is significantly better, and you can already feel the movement return to your toes as you take a deep breath.

And suddenly, you realize that he’s…everywhere. Against you, around you, inside you. Well, his smell is, anyway. The subtle scent of his cologne making a home in your lungs.

And it’s…nice. A masculine vanilla, of sorts. Comforting.

…ew.

And while your first instinct is to reach up and shove him away…you don’t. Instead, your hands come to rest on his chest as you feel each curve and dip of his strong body. Maybe you’re too cold or too tired, but whatever the case, you don’t push.

“You can’t do this,” you choose to mumble, despite the fact that you do nothing to stop it.

He simply snorts under his breath. “Already am.”

You shift but don’t pull yourself out of his arms. “I can’t breathe.”

“You’ll get over it.”

Your eyes narrow, even though he can’t see you. 

For a moment, the dark room falls quiet. The sound of his breathing above you is soft and you feel his body rise and fall with each one. It nearly lulls you to sleep as the heat begins to surround you, much like his arms have.

“Why are you so mean to me?” you hear yourself whisper, momentarily stunned by the words that came from your own throat without permission.

He seems to tense. “I’m not mean to you. That’s just…you know, our thing.”

“Our thing is you being mean to me?”

“I’m not mean,” he repeats sternly, arms constricting around your back. “Trust me, if I were fucking mean to you, you’d know it.”

“So…this is you being nice?”

You hear him huff. “Can you please just go the fuck to sleep?”

“Okay,” you murmur, with absolutely no plans to do so. 

But you allow him to think that he’s won for about two minutes before you voice your next question.

“Why is being mean our thing?”

Another sigh. “I swear to fucking God—”

“You used to bring me cookies,” you remind him, the memory of when he first joined your sector years prior coming to mind. “Every morning. You’d bring me cookies from the bakery you stopped at on the way to work.”

Again, he goes quiet, muscles hard beneath your touch. “I don’t remember,” he replies after a minute, the cadence of his voice so low you almost don’t catch it.

“I do,” you say, fingers absentmindedly stroking his soft shirt. A nervous habit. “I remember. It was my favorite part of the day. You were so…kind. Quiet. Maybe a little shy, but…you were a great addition to the program. I liked having you there.”

He snorts again, the sound full of disbelief and contempt. “Yeah. Right.”

You lean back, head tilting to look up at him. “I did.”

He looks down. Stares. Says nothing.

You don’t know what you wanted him to say but you do suppose you want to know why. What changed between the days when you were almost friends to…now.

“I’m not mean to you,” he finally answers, a bit softer than his last remark. “Not on purpose, anyway.”

“Oh, so the constant insults and degrading comments are just a part of your charm and charisma?” you tease, hoping to lighten the mood.

It doesn’t work.

His lips press into a thin line. “Why do you care if I’m nice to you or not?”

“I’m…’cause you used to be,” you say, rather confused by the question. “And clearly something changed, I just…I don’t know. I want to know why.”

“Why?”

“Yes, why.”

“No, why do you want to know?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it doesn’t matter. We’re not friends.”

“Yeah. I know. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why aren’t we friends?”

He leans back now, too. “…why the fuck would we be?”

You shrug. “Because we work together. And have to spend a lot of time together. And it would be nice to at least be civil.”

“I don’t want to be civil,” he scoffs. “Especially with you.”

Now even more startled, you blink at him. “I’m sorry, what the fuck does that mean?”

Again, his jaw clamps shut, effectively ending his side of the conversation.

You’ve struck a nerve, but you have no idea which one.

And despite the fact that he’s still holding you, his touch has grown cold and distant.

So, you snatch his shirt between your fingers and tug. “Stop doing that. Just talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about—”

“Yes, there is. Look…if I…did something…just tell me. Okay, because I probably didn’t mean to, and I can’t exactly apologize for it if I don’t know. So, just…spit it out—”

“No—”

“Yes—”

“I said fucking no—”

“And I said I don’t fucking care. Now, tell me what I—”

“Charlie.”

The name brings your response to a halt as you hesitate and flick your eyes between his, looking for understanding. “…what?”

Harry takes a deep breath as if steeling himself from the conversation. “Fucking Charlie, all right? You started dating Charlie. That’s what you did.”

There’s a certain disdain behind his expression that you manage to make out and it throws you for a loop. “I…wait, what? I don’t get it, why is that bad?”

He hesitates before sighing, seeming to dismiss the conversation altogether. “Forget it.”

“No, seriously,” you insist, tugging on him again. “Did…did you want to date him?”

His eyes roll. “Here we fucking go—”

“No, I mean it. ’Cause I don’t understand why else that would make you hate me—”

His attention snaps back down. “I don’t hate you, I…look. It doesn’t fucking matter, all right, so just drop it—”

“It does matter. It does, Harry, because it’s been driving me nuts for four years and I can’t take it anymore.”

And maybe he’s tired, too. Maybe he’s delirious from the long journey or maybe he’s just tired of talking, but for whatever reason, he finally lets his vulnerability slip through the cracks.

You see it peak through his expression. See it—feel it—in the way he holds you. Looks at you. In the way he fights with himself to reveal the truth.

“Because I liked you,” he says. So simply, you could almost be tricked into thinking it is. “I liked you. A lot. But you didn’t like me. You liked him.”

You can say nothing. Can offer no response or reaction as your lashes flutter and your brain works to process what he just admitted to you.

His jaw tenses as he waits. “Yeah. Exactly. So…there you fucking go. Happy?”

“I—” Your heart begins to race wildly inside your chest as this secret bounces around the walls of your mind. “Harry, I didn’t…I didn’t know.”

“I know,” he mumbles, shifting a little as his grip begins to loosen, desperate to let you go and pull himself away. “Why would you have? I’m not Charlie.”

You frown. You don’t like the implication in his tone. “No, you’re not Charlie. And you should be really fucking glad you aren’t.”

Now, it’s his turn to work through your reply. “…what do you mean?”

“I mean Charlie was a fucking ass,” you tell him, past resentment slipping through your hostile tone. “Okay, cheating on me was one of the nicer things he did.”

And you almost think you see pity in his eyes mixed with just the slightest hint of rage. “He cheated on you?”

“Oh, yeah. Cheated on, belittled me, ditched me in the middle of one of our dates with no way to get home,” you recall. “Not to mention he was shit in bed, he couldn’t be bothered to learn my last name, and he owes me over fifteen thousand dollars.”

Harry rears back. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nope.” You almost smirk, somehow amused by his utter shock. “So, trust me…Charlie was not a threat to you. In fact, nobody could have been a threat to you.”

 “And what does that mean?”

He sounds suspicious and you hesitate, curious as to whether or not this is really something you want to admit.

You swallow the urge. “It just means…you were my friend. And I cared about you, and it kind of fucking sucked when you turned on me.”

His expression falls, frown mirror your own. He opens his mouth, ready to respond, but then stops. He stops and he looks at you and he mulls. 

You wish he’d allow you a visit inside his mind. Wish he’d clue you into his thought process but perhaps it’s better this way.

And maybe he was right. Maybe this is your thing. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t like you. 

Maybe that’ll make it easier to stay away.

“So…he was shit in bed, huh?” Harry murmurs after a moment, and your brow raises.

“Really? That’s what you’re taking from what I said?” you tease, playfully slapping at his chest. “Very funny.”

“M’not being funny,” he insists, nodding his chin at you. “Must have been hard for you. Or…I guess soft?”

Your eyes narrow as you smirk. “Ha. Ha.”

For the first time all day…he smiles. “Look, I just…I feel bad for you, you know? I mean, yeah, the cheating and stealing and being an ass part all suck. But…the bad sex? That’s just unforgivable.”

“It was heinous,” you agree, feigning a wounded sigh. “Seriously, I had to replace three vibrators over the course of our relationship. Three.”

He sucks in an empathetic breath. “Yikes.”

“I know. But I got really buff in my right arm.”

His grin widens until you can see his bunny teeth. “For fuck’s sake—”

“But not the left one for some reason. So it was really uneven. I looked like a Picasso painting—”

“Oh, my god. Stop. Please stop talking—”

“What? You’re the one that asked.”

“Yeah, I asked because clearly you need some help.”

This time, you rear back, eyebrow raising as you look at him. “I’m sorry…what?”

And he almost looks like he regrets the words that just came out of his mouth, but instead of taking them back…he shrugs one shoulder up. “Well…come on. You have to admit you’re…tense.”

“Wha—I am not tense,” you sputter. “I’m…I…just because I don’t put up with your shit does not make me tense.”

“No, but you not being able to come the way you deserve does.”

It’s so…tenacious the way he speaks. The way he says deserve like he’s had this thought before.

You wonder if he has.

“And who says I haven’t?” you counter.

“Have you?”

Your split-second hesitation is answer enough and his smirk returns as he hums to himself.

“Got it,” he mumbles, letting his eyes rake down your face. “Like I said…s’a shame.”

You snort, “Oh, is it?”

“It is.”

“And why is that?”

“Cause I could probably help you out.”

There it is again. That confidence in what he’s offering that makes your breath hitch. “Harry…come on.”

“Come on what?” he teases. “Your tongue? Your stomach? Your pus—”

“Okay, all right, enough,” you interject, wincing a bit as you lean away. “Seriously. Stop.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? We can’t…this is a weird conversation,” you huff. “You don’t…that’s not what we…it’s just weird.”

“Why do you think it’s weird?”

An unamused glare begins to form. “Because it is.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because we don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk like that.” Your hand quickly gestures between your bodies. “You said it yourself. Our thing is being mean. Arguing and fighting and you getting on my nerves.”

He hums again, as if considering it. “Well…maybe this can be our thing, too.”

“Harry.”

“Princess.”

The exasperated expression on your face deepens at the familiar nickname. “It is not going to be our thing.”

“Fine,” he sighs, one hand raising as he surrenders himself. “I’m just saying…it would probably help you stay warm.”

Oh, he’s such a fucking—

“That’s…dumb,” is what you choose to reply with, to which he smiles.

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But it works. All that body heat, and friction, and excursion—”

“Harry.”

“Princess.”

Your lips set into a line. “Are you being serious right now or are you fucking with me? Because I really can’t tell.”

“I’m being serious,” he says, just as simply as before. “Dead fucking serious.”

“Why?”

Another shrug. “Told you. I feel bad for you.”

You scoff rather incredulously as you turn over onto your back, forcing his arms out from around you. “I don’t need you to feel bad for me. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Clearly.”

It goes quiet then, both of you falling in line with the comfortable silence.

After a moment, you look over, suddenly aware of the absence of his body now that you’re no longer trapped against his chest.

And you almost…miss it. The warmth, and the slight serenity, and…the safety.

He’s one of the most annoying people you’ve ever met but he’s damn good at his job. He’s quick, he’s smart, and he’s quite capable.

And he’s got more muscles than he’s got brain cells.

“What?” he grumbles, seeming to finally notice your staring.

“Sorry,” you whisper, shaking the thought of him free as you glance back up at the ceiling. 

But you feel him study you. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“No,” you deny instantly, cheeks flushing at the very idea. “God, Harry. You’re so—”

“Annoying. Yes. I know. I’m also quite good with my hands if that’s any help—”

“Harry.”

“Princess,” he mimics, and you can hear the smile. “We don’t have to, I’m just saying…my services are here.”

“Services,” you repeat under your breath, snorting some. “How romantic.”

“Never claimed to be romantic. Just claimed to be good.”

“Well, you would think so.”

“I don’t think so. I know so.”

“Yeah, well, Charlie thought he knew so, too.”

“Well, we’ve already established I’m not Charlie, haven’t we?”

Your eyes flick back over to his. “Maybe. That doesn’t make you good.”

“And what about me implies that I wouldn’t be?”

“I don’t know. The fact that you called it services?”

“Getting you off is a service. A very nice one, actually. Or would you rather call it a favor?”

“I’d rather call it nothing. Because it makes it sound cheap.”

“We’re in a roadside motel. What about this entire trip doesn’t scream cheap to you?”

“The fact that we work for the government. And the fact that they’re not paying us to…you know.”

“What? You can’t even say it? Come on, Princess, I thought you were better than that.”

“I’m…I…” It’s incredible how quickly he’s managed to render you speechless. “I’m just saying, that’s not what we’re here for.”

“People fuck on the job all the time,” he reminds you. “Just last week, Spencer Reid told me about this girl he met in Vegas—”

“I don’t wanna hear that,” you exclaim, hands immediately flying to your ears to protect you from any unpleasant information about your friend. “What he does is none of my business.”

“You mean who he does,” Harry corrects smugly. “Look, Hotch doesn’t care. As long as the job gets done, it doesn’t matter.”

“So…what? That makes it okay?”

“Okay? It’s just an orgasm, it’s not murder—”

“Shit like that is personal,” you huff. “It’s intimate and…delicate. You know? It’s not for people who already don’t like each other. That makes it…messy.”

“Yeah, well…I like it messy,” he says, and despite yourself, there’s a catch in your throat. “Besides, I don’t know why we’re still talking about it if you don’t want to do it.”

You hesitate. He’s got a point.

Suddenly, he pushes up onto his forearm to really get a good look at you. “…unless you do want to. And you’re trying to argue yourself out of it.”

Your mouth drops open. “What? No, I…no.”

He snorts. “Oh, well, I’m convinced.”

“I don’t,” you insist before the truth begins to beat against your ribcage like a drum. “I mean…I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be weird?”

“No. Not unless we make it weird.”

“Well how do I know you won’t make it weird?”

“It was my idea. Why would I make it weird?”

“Because you are weird.”

“Yeah, but I’m still good.”

You exhale a sharp breath. “Harry…I’m being serious.”

He returns your stare. “So am I.”

“Well…I still don’t understand why you want to. Don’t guys hate stuff like that?”

“Stuff like what?” he retorts. “Fingering you? Eating you out? Tasting you? I’m sorry, what part of that doesn’t sound like a fucking dream?”

“Listen, Charlie used to tell me that it was gross—”

“And Charlie’s a fucking pussy,” Harry decides, rather resolutely. “Which is ironic since he doesn’t know what to do with one. But that doesn’t mean the rest of us are. Okay, we know how to enjoy the finer things in life.”

“Is that…a compliment?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“Thanks. Are you convinced?”

Are you convinced? You almost want to laugh at the very question but…perhaps you are. Perhaps he’s right—yet again—and this one-time agreement could offer you a bit of…help.

And heat.

Since it’s still fucking freezing.

“If I say yes…you have to promise to never…bring this up again,” you begin as he straightens up. “Never, Harry. I mean it. Not as a joke. Not when you’re mad at me. Not when we’re in front of anyone. Ever.”

“What, you think I want people to know about this?” He smirks. “Promise. What happens in the shitty roadside motel stays in the shitty roadside motel.”

“Great.” Your hands gather in front of your stomach as you begin to pick at your nail beds. “So…okay. Great. Is that…I mean, are you—”

“What do you need?”

You blink. “What…what do you mean?”

“My mouth or my fingers. What do you need?”

God, this feels too fucking real. You swallow rather thickly as you move your focus to his nose, looking for something less intimidating to concentrate on. “I don’t know. Whichever you want, I guess.”

“It’s not about what I want,” he replies easily. “It’s about what you need. So, I’m gonna ask you again. And this time I need an answer, all right?”

You simply look at him.

“What do you need…to come?” he asks softly, moving a bit closer across the mattress as his breath fans across your face. “Do you need my mouth? My tongue? My fingers?”

His hand outstretches for your neck, palm sliding up until his thumb can sweep along your jaw. 

“Hm?” he hums, gazing down at you rather curiously as you lean back into the pillows. “Or do you need it all? Do you need more? Need to feel full? Fucked?”

You feel like you’re being pulled into a trap. Lured into the devious intentions swimming behind his eyes.

But you don’t…care.

“Can’t help you if you don’t tell me, Princess,” he continues, his voice like silk. Sex. “Give you whatever you need. Just have to ask.”

“I don’t…I don’t know, really,” you whisper, desperate to shove the control in his hands. “I’m not…I don’t care. Do whichever you’re comfortable with.”

“Darling…there is nothing about you I couldn’t be comforted by,” he says, finger teasing your bottom lip. “Do you really think…I’d choose not to feel you? Slip myself inside you and feel how fucking tight you are. ’Cause I know you are, aren’t you, honey? Bet you’re so soft…so warm…so fucking wet. Be so easy to taste you for myself.”

 He was right. He is good at this.

And maybe in the past you’ve liked to have some control, but right now…you’d do anything for him. Be anything he wanted you to be. 

He knows exactly what you need. Knows that you need someone to put you in your place. Guide you toward what you want.

“Why don’t I start with my hand?” he suggests gently, looking for approval on your face. “Give you a minute to realize how much you like it.”

When your only response is continued staring, his head tilts.

“Words, Princess,” he warns. “Or we stop.”

And really, he hasn’t even done anything yet but the very idea of stopping makes your stomach recoil.

“Fine,” you manage to breathe. “Your…hand. That’s…fine.”

You hate how…nervous you sound. How unsure, but Harry is more than willing to make up for the slack, grinning to himself as he trails his palm back down your neck.

“Need you to relax for me, okay?” he instructs as he reaches your chest, delicately and tamely slipping between your breasts toward your stomach. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t graze, doesn’t take a moment to fondle you like a prepubescent horny boy. He does only what he said he was going to. “Just like that, there you go.”

He continues to glide along the fabric of your shirt until he reaches your hips where the band of your pants lie. 

His finger taps against the elastic, almost as if waiting.

“Say it again,” he whispers, dipping down until his nose ghosts across your cheek. “Need to hear you say it one more time.”

And you wonder if he really does want to be adamant about consent…

…or if he just enjoys hearing you submit.

“Please,” you just about gasp, suddenly aware of the lust you feel for his touch. The way you really do feel…empty. “Please, Har…just…just—”

His hand disappears beneath the material, and when you feel him brush over the fabric of your underwear…your eyes flutter shut.

He chooses to forgo skin on skin contact. At least for now, and you imagine it’s because he’s waiting for you to feel a bit more at ease.

And the rather generous thought does something to your stomach as he begins to drag the pad of his thumb down your covered clit.

You go still. Deathly still because it feels so fucking good. You hadn’t realized you were this wound up but instantly…your muscles turn to jelly.

“How’s that, hm?” comes the low purr of his voice, his lips now much closer to your ear. “Feel good?”

You nod mutely as your hands begin to fist the sheets below you. 

“Good,” he replies, seemingly proud as he repeats the previous action before moving down. Then…he tsks. “Oh, honey…what’s this?”

You venture a glance over at him as he leans back to see you.

“Already so wet,” he says, fighting his amusement. “What’s got you so worked up, darling? Haven’t even done anything yet.”

Truthfully, you don’t know. You hadn’t realized. Maybe he’s just that good or maybe your body has been more complicit to his unspoken intentions than you were aware of.

Either way, he’s right. You are so pathetically wet, and he hasn’t even fully touched you yet.

“Have you been thinking about it this whole time?” he asks next, voice slipping back through the needle of salacious resolve. “Hm? Just been lying here, dripping for me? Needing me to make it better?”

He adds a bit more pressure and you gasp, the ache between your thighs growing much more unbearable.

He does it again before slowing down and your chest just about caves in.

“What?” He moves closer again, grinning to himself as he places his lips against your neck. “Something wrong?”

“Har…” you nearly whine, squirming some under his hold.

His tattooed arm flexes as he rolls the heel of his hand down your clit. “What? What is it? What do you need?”

You, you, you. The thought screams inside your head as he licks his tongue along your jaw. 

“Please…” you say instead, hoping you sound desolate enough to garner his sympathy. 

“Please what? Can’t read your mind, honey. Need you to tell me.”

You groan in the back of your throat, partially from his arrogant, flippant behavior and partially from the way he’s pulling at your skin with his teeth.

“Just…just…” Still, the request refuses to come out, and you want to smack yourself for being so weak.

“Just…just?” he repeats, somewhat mockingly but still gentle. “Just what? Just…this?”

You feel his finger hook around the hem of your panties before he’s effortlessly pulling it aside to graze his touch through you.

And you moan, so much louder than you’d meant to. Because even this simple touch does more for you than Charlie ever did.

“Ah,” he murmurs as he dances his mouth down the side of your throat. “That’s what you need.”

And before you have the chance to reply, he’s slipping a finger inside right at the same time that he’s raising up to kiss you.

Really kiss you, his tongue tangling with yours as you willingly give him every breath in your lungs.

The combination of sensations just about kills you as he effortlessly works his touch in and out with ease.

And he’s not recoiling the way you imagined he might. He’s not half-assing it or declaring he’s already done.

No, he’s…he’s indulging in you. Truly and completely as he groans into your bottom lip before sucking on it.

“Fucking knew it,” he whispers, moving to sit up on the bed so he can fully hover over you. “Fucking knew…”

You aren’t quite sure what he means but you do like the way he says it, your skin flushing as he gently introduces you to a second finger.

And it’s so good. So…full. Exactly the way you’d hoped. Exactly the way he’d promised.

Practiced, and patient, and pure pleasure. Right now, you know nothing but this feeling he’s giving you.

His kisses grow hungrier. Angrier. Like he’s fighting himself on how much he’s enjoying it.

And it makes sense. You’re rather annoyed yourself at how easy it was to start needing him. How desperate he’s made you become in such a short time.

Your arms move to wrap around his shoulders and keep him close, nails scratching at the few hairs lying on the nape of his neck.

You hear him sigh. Perhaps with contentment as he places his other hand on the mattress to brace himself and fully give in.

You wish you’d turned a light on. Wish you could really see him. Drink him in. Admire the man you’ve always loved to look at.

Because he is quite fun to look at.

Your hips lift from the mattress as if chasing the feeling he’s offering, and he makes a noise against your mouth that’s a mix between entertained and disappointed.

“Easy,” he chastises, subtly pushing you back down. “Come on, Princess. Be a good girl and stay still for me.”

“Har,” you whimper again, pulling a bit harder on his curls. “Please…just…hurry.”

“No,” he says simply, and your lashes flutter. “No, I’m gonna enjoy you. Gonna take my time…and you’re gonna take it.”

You exhale a wounded whine as he leans back and slowly removes his fingers.

And the loss of stimulation just about ruins you.

“Fuck,” you seethe between gritted teeth. “Come on. God, knew you’d be a fucking pain in my—”

His hands latch onto your pajama pants and underwear so he can pull them down, and when the cold air hits your cunt…you gasp again.

Once they’re off and discarded to the side, he maneuvers along the mattress until he can take hold of your thighs and guide them apart. 

Then…he blows.

A warm, gentle breath dances across your already sensitive pussy, making you tense as he settles onto his stomach.

His fingers constrict around your legs to keep them planted firmly to the bed as he leans in to press a kiss to your inner thigh. 

Then, another.

And another.

And another.

Higher, and higher, and higher until he’s so close…you can practically taste it.

He pauses and you aren’t sure why. You hope it’s not because something’s wrong. Or because he’s repulsed. Or because he’s changed his—

His tongue presses into your cunt with fervor and pressure, cutting your overthinking short as he takes that taste.

And just like that…everything makes sense.

All you understand his him, and his mouth, and his lips, and the powerful rush of immense and innate pleasure washing over you.

But it doesn’t just wash, it surrounds you. Overwhelms you. Pulls you down until you feel like you’re drowning.

There’s static in your brain as he sucks on your clit and squeezes your legs in his hands. As he leaves kisses across your pussy and traces his name across every inch.

“Harry,” you whisper, too overcome to care how pathetically enamored you sound. “Please…please…please…”

You can’t see him, but you don’t doubt that he’s proud. Probably smiling to himself as he releases one leg to slip his fingers back in.

He curls, and he stretches, and he sucks until your skin is on fire. Until it almost hurts. Until you feel as though you can’t hold it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, nose bumping into your hip as he works you closer. “S’a good girl…you can take it, come on.”

“Shit…shit, Har,” you breathe, muscles burning from the way you attempt to hold yourself together. “Can’t…please…”

“Yes you can. You can, come on—”

“Harry—”

“I know, Princess. I know. S’okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you—”

“Please…”

“Shh…let me play with you. M’having so much fun. Don’t wanna stop.”

And you don’t want him to stop either. You never want him to stop again. You want to stay here, in this shitty motel, on this lumpy mattress, in his hands. Forever.

He’s so warm, and strong, and safe, and good.

And you can feel the tears slip from your eyes from the immense build-up and from the realization that you are so insanely…happy right now.

You hate him. God, you fucking hate him.

But there’s no one else you’d want around. No one else you can even imagine yourself doing this with.

You don’t want to let this go. This joy, this serenity, this moment.

Him.

You don’t want to let go.

But you know…you’ll have to.

The tears begin to flow a bit faster as you suck in a sharp inhale through quivering lips. 

You focus in on his touch. His voice. The gentle rasp that encourages you to keep going. That he’s got you. That you’re doing so good. That he can’t wait to taste you. 

And you can’t do it any longer. Can’t hold off, can’t fight it.

You come with a mangled whimper, fingers clawing down the sheets as your thighs squeeze around his head. As you see a glimpse of heaven while he makes you roll against his tongue. As everything changes.

“Fucking perfect,” he hums, working you through every second, thrusts slowing as he eases you back down. “So good, honey. Just like I wanted.”

But you don’t respond. Can’t. Not out of remorse or embarrassment…but because your throat has gone dry from the tears.

And as the dark motel room falls silent…he hears it. Hears your cries as you struggle to contain your emotion.

“Hey…hey,” he calls sternly, quickly straightening up so he can move closer. “What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you crying?”

You don’t answer as he reaches over to flick on the bedside lamp, and the moment the light fills the room, you throw your hands over your face.

“Fuck,” you whisper into your palms, cheeks stained with broken promises and humiliation. “Fuck…fuck, I’m sorry—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he warns, fingers already wrapping around your wrists to pull them down. “Don’t fucking do that. Don’t. Just tell me what happened, tell me what’s wrong.”

But you don’t. Can’t. You simply blink up at him as he studies you, the trepidation clearly etched across his expression. 

For a moment, you both stay there. Him kneeling above you, hands tight around yours, and you. Lying in your defeat.

After a minute of silence has come and gone, he seems to understand. Seems to accept that this isn’t about what did happen.

It’s about what didn’t.

His eyes grow sad as he sighs and reaches up to brush a thumb down your lip.

Then, he caresses your cheek with more tenderness than you’ve ever seen from him.

“I know,” he murmurs while your heart just about shatters. “In another life…I would have done it right.”

And you know exactly what he means.

You sniffle as he dips down to find you again. Mouth on yours as a hundred unspoken promises pass between you.

“Yeah…in another life.”

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Bloody Mary | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, mentions/descriptions of parental death, implication of suicide (take care of yourselves, my loves)

Word Count: 6379

A/N: Happy Saturday! Asks/Taglists are open!!

Series Rewrite Masterlist

You and Dean hadn’t talked much since the events on the plane. In fact, the two of you barely looked at each other anymore. Not out of disgust, your stomach just fluttered every time you caught a glimpse of him for reasons you couldn’t explain. You didn’t exactly like him, but you definitely didn’t hate him, either. In fact, your most recent journal drawing had been of your hand wrapped in Dean’s. You smiled at the memory.

Sam slept in the front seat while Dean drove the three of you to Toledo, Ohio. You had actually been the one to find this case. Steven Shoemaker’s eyes had bled when he died. According to his obituary, his death had been swift. He was much too young to have had a stroke or an aneurysm, and seemed to be in good health. Therefore, you concluded this was your kind of gig. 

Sam began to stir, catching your attention. You straightened in your seat as the Impala came to a halt in front of a large hospital complex. Sam’s stirring and whimpering was getting worse by the second.

Dean shook his brother. “Sam, wake up.”

He bolted straight up, confused, taking both you and Dean by surprise. After taking a second to catch his breath, he said, “I take it I was having a nightmare.”

“Yeah, another one,” Dean reminded him.

“Hey, at least I got some sleep.” Sam’s faux optimism caused you to shake your head. 

“You know, sooner or later we're gonna have to talk about this.” 

Apparently, Sam was choosing the latter. “Are we here?” he asked.

Dean was happy to drop the subject, too. “Yup. Welcome to Toledo, Ohio.”

The three of you began to approach the morgue wing of the hospital. You noticed Sam was holding the newspaper you’d circled Mr. Shoemaker’s death in. “So what do you think really happened to this guy?”

“That's what we're gonna find out. Ladies first,” you joked, holding the door to the first floor of the hospital open for the brothers. 

After making your way through the labyrinth of hallways, you found the dimly lit and vacated morgue. In the large room were two desks. One was labeled with a nameplate for Dr. D. Feiklowicz with neatly stacked packets, files, and books atop it. The other was a chaotic mess of stray papers labeled “Morgue Technician.”

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yeah. We're the, uh, med students,” Dean responded.

“Sorry?” the morgue tech asked.

“Oh, Doctor—” Dean gave his best shot at the name, “—Figlavitch didn't tell you? We talked to him on the phone. He— uh, we're from Ohio State. He's supposed to show us the Shoemaker corpse. It's for our paper.”

“Well, I'm sorry, he's at lunch.” The morgue tech was smug, snarky, and clearly lacked people skills.

‘No wonder they have him locked up down here,’ you thought.

Dean changed course. “Oh, well, he said, uh— oh, well, you know, it doesn't matter. You don't mind just showing us the body, do you?”

“Sorry, I can't.” The morgue tech gave a tight-lipped smile. “Doc will be back in an hour. You can wait for him if you want.”

“An hour? Ooh. We gotta be heading back to Columbus by then,” Dean tried. “Uh, look, man, this paper's like half our grade, so if you don't mind helping us out—”

“Uh, look, man,” the technician mocked, “No.”

Dean laughed a little and turned around, mumbling. “I'm gonna hit him in his face I swear.”

You took the opportunity to try a different tactic. You leaned down on the morgue technician’s desk, doing your best to take advantage of the fact that he probably has had little contact with women. “Please?” you asked innocently. “These guys are my tutors. I’m really struggling in this class, and I just—” you bit your lip, “—I really need a good grade on this paper.” You used your arms to push your breasts together. “Please?” 

You could tell you had him on the ropes. “Uh…” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your cleavage. He cleared his throat. “I, uh, I guess I could do that for you.”

You smiled innocently. “Thank you so much.”

He began leading the three of you into an attached room to where the bodies were stored for autopsies. You turned around and winked at the boys with a smug smile. Dean rolled his eyes.

The morgue technician pulled the rack Steven Shoemaker’s corpse rested on out from the wall of stainless steel cells.

“Now the newspaper said his daughter found him. She said his eyes were bleeding,” Sam said.

The technician pulled the sheet back from over Steven’s face. “More than that. They practically liquefied.” The poor man’s eye sockets were still bloody, and they hadn’t yet been sewn shut. You could see the dried blood peeking out from under his partially-closed eyes. 

“Any sign of a struggle? Maybe somebody did it to him?” Dean suggested.

“Nope. Besides the daughter, he was all alone,” the technician answered.

“What's the official cause of death?” Sam asked.

“Ah, Doc's not sure. He's thinking massive stroke, maybe an aneurysm? Something burst up in there, that's for sure.”

‘Nope, he’s way too young and in much too good health for that to have been the cause,’ you thought, but kept the thought at bay.

“What do you mean?” you asked. You didn’t like playing dumb, but with this guy, it was necessary. 

“Intense cerebral bleeding. This guy had more blood in his skull than anyone I've ever seen,” the tech answered. Although, he was more responding to your boobs than to your face. You fought the urge to snap in front of his face and get his eyes back on target. 

“The eyes?” Sam asked. “What would cause something like that?”

“Capillaries can burst. See a lot of bloodshot eyes with stroke victims,” the morgue tech shrugged.

Dean’s tone was still aggravated with the guy. “Yeah? You ever see exploding eyeballs?”

“That's a first for me, but hey, I'm not the doctor.”

“Hey, think we could take a look at that police report? You know for, uh...our paper.”

“I'm not really supposed to show you that.” The technician looked back at you.

You suppressed the bile rising in your throat. Before you could do anything else, Dean stepped in front of you and pulled out his wallet. He shoved two twenties at him, hoping that would be enough. You could see the technician deflate, but accepted the money anyway.

Dean’s actions puzzled you. But you would be lying if you said your heart didn’t flutter at the thought of him doing it out of protectiveness of you. 

When you had finished looking over the police report, the three of you began making your way out of the building. 

“Might not be one of ours. Might just be some freak medical thing,” Sam suggested after having seen the report. 

“How many times in Dad's long and varied career has it actually been a freak medical thing and not some sign of an awful supernatural death?” Dean replied. 

“Uh, almost never.”

“Exactly.”

“Alright, let's go talk to the daughter.” Sam started picking up his pace out of the building. You were happy to see him getting his mind off Jessica and back into the job.

“Wait, Dean.” You grabbed his arm lightly before he could catch up to his brother.

He turned to face you. 

“Why’d you do that?” you asked. 

“Do what?” He furrowed his brow.

“Give the morgue tech your hard-earned poker money,” you half-smiled. 

“I just didn’t wanna watch you prostitute yourself for information,” he replied gruffly, turning away from you. 

You took offense. “Hey, I was not—”

He turned back to you and brushed a hand over his hair. “You’re right, you werent.” He paused again, and his voice came back quiet. “I just didn’t like the way he was looking at you, ‘s all.”

Your heart swelled in your chest and your cheeks began to heat up. “Thanks, by the way,” you said as you continued walking. You nudged his shoulder with yours. “You’re going soft on me, Winchester.”

***

When you arrived at the Shoemaker house, you hadn’t expected to be in the midst of the funeral gathering. If you did, you would’ve dressed more appropriately. Given this fact, you felt slightly awkward when you knocked on the door. A man let you in and pointed you toward the backyard and the two daughters of Steven Shoemaker.

The two sisters were sitting with two blonde girls near the firepit. Dean addressed the older, dark-haired girl. “You must be Donna, right?”

“Yeah,” the girl responded.

“Hi, uh, we're really sorry,” Sam lamented.

“Thank you.”

“I'm Sam, this is Dean and (Y/N). We worked with your dad.”

The girl looked at her friend before looking back at your trio. “You did?” She seemed surprised. 

“Yeah. This whole thing. I mean, a stroke…” Sam trailed off.

“I don't think she really wants to talk about this right now,” one of Donna’s pretty blonde friends spoke up. 

“It's okay. I'm okay,” she assured her friend. 

“Were there any symptoms? Dizziness? Migraines?” Dean asked.

Donna shook her head. “No.”

The younger sister, who looked to be about twelve, turned around. “That's because it wasn't a stroke.”

You were intrigued.

“Lily, don't say that,” her sister urged her.

“What do you mean?” you asked the young girl.

“I'm sorry, she's just upset,” her sister responded for her.

“No,” Lily wasn’t having it. “It happened because of me.”

Donna placed a hand on her shoulder. “Sweetie, it didn't.”

You got down on Lily’s eye level. “Why would you say that?”

“Right before he died, I said it,” she said softly.

“Said what?”

She lowered her voice even more. “Bloody Mary, three times in the bathroom mirror. She took his eyes, that's what she does.”

Donna interrupted. “That's not why Dad died. This isn't your fault.”

“I think your sister's right, Lily,” Dean broke in. “There's no way it could have been Bloody Mary. Your dad didn't say it, did he?”

Lily tried to take this in. She shook her head. 

“Exactly,” you told her. “I’m sorry, we weren’t trying to upset you. We’ll just be leaving.” You pulled the boys away from Donna’s group and went back into the house. Making sure no one saw you three, you crept upstairs to the bathroom where Mr. Shoemaker passed away. 

Sam pushed the door open, and you noticed some dried blood still on the floor. “The Bloody Mary legend. Dad ever find any evidence that it was a real thing?”

“Not that I know of,” Dean replied. He walked ahead of Sam into the bathroom. 

Sam stooped to the floor and touched the dried blood. “I mean, everywhere else all over the country, kids will play Bloody Mary, and as far as we know, nobody dies from it.”

“Yeah, but maybe it’s fine everywhere else, but not here,” you suggested.

“The place where the legend began?” Sam tried.

You shrugged as Dean opened the medicine cabinet. 

“But according to the legend, the person who says B—” you stopped yourself and noticed your reflection in the medicine cabinet’s mirror. “You know what is the one that dies. But here—”

“Shoemaker gets it instead, yeah,” Dean finished for you.

Sam rose from the floor. “Right.”

“Never heard anything like that before. Still, the guy did die right in front of the mirror, and the daughter's right. The way the legend goes, you-know-who scratches your eyes out.”

You considered Dean’s words for a moment. “It's worth checking in to.” You went to leave the bathroom when you noticed one of Donna’s pretty blonde friends approaching you.

“What are you doing up here?” she asked. 

“We— We had to go to the bathroom,” you answered, not believing yourself.

“Who are you?” the girl pressed further.

Dean stepped closer to you from behind. “Like we said downstairs, we worked with Donna's dad.”

She shook her head with scrunched eyebrows. “He was a day trader or something. He worked by himself.”

“No, I know, I meant—” 

She cut Dean off. “And all those weird questions downstairs, what was that? So you tell me what's going on, or I start screaming.”

Sam put a hand up to calm her. “Alright, alright, we think something happened to Donna's dad.”

The blonde looked at you three like you were stupid. “Yeah, a stroke.”

“I don’t think so,” you argued. “He was pretty young to be having a stroke. His eyes wouldn’t have liquified if he’d had a stroke. I think it might be something else.”

She scoffed and crossed her arms. “Like what?’

“Honestly? We don't know yet. But we don't want it to happen to anyone else. That's the truth,” Sam responded.

“So, if you're gonna scream, go right ahead,” Dean snarked.

“Who are you, cops?” she asked, her brows still furrowed.

“Something like that,” you shrugged.

“I'll tell you what. Here.” Sam took a piece of paper and a pen out of his jacket pocket and wrote his phone number down. “If you think of anything, you or your friends notice anything strange, out of the ordinary, just give us a call.” He handed her the piece of paper before leading you and Dean down the hallway.

Your next stop was the public library. 

“Alright, say Bloody Mary really is haunting this town,” Dean began. “There's gonna be some sort of proof— Like a local woman who died nasty.”

“Yeah, but this is hard. The legend is unbelievably widespread with hundreds of different versions of who she actually is,” you rebutted. “One story says she's a witch, another says she's a mutilated bride, there's a lot more.”

“Okay, then, so what are we supposed to be looking for?” Dean asked you.

Sam answered. “Every version's got a few things in common. It's always a woman named Mary, and she always dies right in front of a mirror. So we've gotta search local newspapers, public records as far back as they go. See if we can find a Mary who fits the bill.”

“Well, that sounds annoying,” the older brother commented. 

“No, it won't be so bad,” Sam replied, “As long as we…”

You cleared your throat, gesturing to the only two computers in the library that had “Out of Order” signs on them. 

Sam chuckled humorlessly. “I take it back. This will be very annoying.”

The three of you picked up boxes of the town’s newspapers and numerous books of Toledo’s public records and brought them back to Sam and Dean’s motel room. 

You were beginning to go cross-eyed after reading for so long. Minutes turned into hours. Dean was sitting in a chair, you were sprawled across the floor with papers and books scattered around you, and Sam eventually fell asleep.

You stood up to stretch your legs and noticed his closed eyes. “Poor fella,” you said quietly. “How’s he been sleeping?”

“How d’you think?” Dean responded, eyes never leaving his book.

You nodded. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Maybe we should get him to take something,” you suggested.

Dean chuckled. “He won’t do it.”

“Is it just because I’m suggesting it that you’re saying that, or do you really think he won’t take it?” you countered.

He gave you a deadpan expression. 

“You Winchesters are just about the most stubborn people I’ve ever met in my life. Including your dad,” you jested. You heard Dean chuckle a little, too.

“And I wanted to tell you,” you started, “I understand why you’d suspect me in your dad’s disappearance.”

He looked away from his book and over at you. “What do you mean?”

“What you said back in Colorado? The Wendigo case? I get it.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You’re still on that?”

“I mean, yeah, that was just about the most heated fight we’ve had. It kinda stuck with me,” you answered honestly, looking down at your stripey-sock-covered feet. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I understand.”

A moment passed silently.

“And I, um—” you took a deep breath, “I want you to trust me.” You looked back at Dean who was studying you carefully.

The tense moment was interrupted by Sam jolting awake in his bed. “Why'd you let me fall asleep?”

“Cause I'm an awesome brother.” Dean’s attention was back on his book. “So what did you dream about?”

“Lollipops and candy canes,” the younger brother responded hazily while staring up at the ceiling.

You laughed humorlessly.

“Did you guys find anything?” Sam asked.

“Oh, besides a whole new level of frustration?” Dean responded sarcastically. “No. I've looked at everything. A few local women, a Laura and a Catherine committed suicide in front of a mirror—”

“And a giant mirror fell on a guy named Dave—” you chimed in.

“But no Mary,” Dean finished for you.

“Maybe we just haven't found it yet,” Sam tried.

“I've also been searching for strange deaths in the area, you know… eyeball bleeding, that sort of thing. There's nothing. Whatever's happening here, maybe it just ain't Mary,” Dean said.

Sam’s phone rang just as his brother finished talking. “Hello?” A look of concern crossed his face. He was trying to calm whoever it was on the other end down.

You waited until he got off the phone to bombard him with questions. “What? What happened?”

“Charlie,” he told you. “Her friend’s dead.”

***

Charlie sobbed as she relayed the story of what happened to her friend Jill. “And they found her on the bathroom floor. And her— her eyes. They were gone.”

You had met her in a park not an hour after she had called Sam.

“I'm sorry,” the latter responded.

“And she said it,” Charlie told you. “I heard her say it. But it couldn't be because of that. I'm insane, right?”

“No, you're not insane,” you said.

“Oh, god, that makes me feel so much worse.” You feared that might be the case.

Sam was honest with her. “Look. We think something's happening here. Something that can't be explained.”

“And we're gonna stop it,” Dean assured Charlie, “but we could use your help.”

You knew exactly where Dean was going with this. And thankfully, Charlie obliged. She snuck you and the boys into Jill’s room through the window. Dean and Sam gave you a boost into the second story room before throwing up Dean’s duffel bag.

“What did you tell Jill's mom?” you asked Charlie.

“Just that I needed some time alone with Jill's pictures and things,” she replied simply. “I hate lying to her.”

You heard someone closing the blinds and curtains behind you. “Trust us, this is for the greater good. Hit the lights,” Dean instructed her.

She obeyed but asked, “What are you guys looking for?”

“We'll let you know as soon as we find it,” the older brother responded.

Sam handed you a digital camera. “Hey, night vision!” You turned it on. You aimed the camera at Dean.

“Do I look like Paris Hilton?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, suppressing an amused smile. You walked over to Jill’s closet door and began filming the mirror on it. 

“So I don't get it,” Sam began. “I mean, the first victim didn't summon Mary, and the second victim did. How's she choosing them?”

You shrugged. 

“Beats me,” Dean answered. “I want to know why Jill said it in the first place.”

“It was just a joke,” Charlie replied.

“Yeah, well somebody's gonna say it again, it's just a matter of time.”

You had made your way over to the bathroom and filmed around the mirror. You stopped when you noticed a trickle of something running from behind it. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?” He came over to you. 

“Look at this.” You showed him the substance oozing from behind the mirror.

Sam looked to his brother. “There's a black light in the trunk, right?” 

While Dean left to get the light, you and Sam pulled the mirror off the wall. When Dean returned, you could see a handprint and the name “Gary Bryman” illuminated by the black light. 

“Gary Bryman?” Charlie asked.

You looked up at her. “You know who that is?”

She shook her head. “No.”

You learned from Sam’s research and Charlie that Jill had killed Gary Bryman, an eight-year-old boy, in a hit and run accident. Dean then decided you needed to return to Donna’s house. When you pulled the medicine cabinet mirror off the wall, sure enough, there was another handprint and the name “Linda Shoemaker.” You learned from Donna that her mother had overdosed on sleeping pills. You had left Charlie at Donna’s house to comfort her friend after you and the boys had upset her with your questions about her mother’s death. 

You then traveled to Fort Wayne, Indiana to investigate the death of a woman named Mary Worthington. She had died the same way these victims were; bleeding from the sockets where her eyes used to be. You spoke to the detective who was the lead on her case. He believed she spent her last moments trying to expose her killer she was having an affair with. She went as far as to start spelling out the name of her killer in her own blood on the back of her mirror. She only got to the third letter of her killer’s name before passing away. It made complete sense to you that her spirit would spend its time exposing the secrets of other murderers. Mary Worthington’s body had been cremated, but the mirror she wrote on had been returned to her family. Now, you and the boys were trying to track down where that mirror had ended up. 

“Oh really?” Sam responded to the man on the phone. “Ah, that's too bad Mr. Worthington. I would have paid a lot for that mirror… Okay, well maybe next time… Alright, thanks.” He hung up.

“So?” you asked.

“So that was Mary's brother,” he informed you. “The mirror was in the family for years, until he sold it one week ago to a store called Estate Antiques. A store in Toledo.”

Dean momentarily looked away from the road to his brother. “So wherever the mirror goes, that's where Mary goes?” 

“Her spirit's definitely tied up with it somehow,” Sam responded.

“Isn't there an old superstition that says mirrors can capture spirits?” you chimed in.

“Yeah, there is. Yeah, when someone would die in a house people would cover up the mirrors so the ghost wouldn't get trapped.”

Dean connected the dots. “So Mary dies in front of a mirror, and it draws in her spirit.”

“Yeah, but how could she move through like a hundred different mirrors?” you challenged.

“I don't know, but if the mirror is the source, I say we find it and smash it.”

“Yeah, I don't know, maybe,” Sam sighed. His phone rang. “Hello?... Charlie?”

***

You and the boys picked up Charlie and brought her to the motel you were staying in. You and the Winchesters were busying yourselves with covering every reflective surface in Sam and Dean’s room with sheets, blankets, jackets; anything. Charlie’s gorgeous blonde hair was knotted and messy, her eyes were puffy from crying but remained closed, and her knees were drawn into her chest. 

Sam sat on the bed next to Charlie. “Hey, hey, it's ok. Hey, you can open up your eyes Charlie. It's okay, alright?”

She looked up slowly. 

“Now listen,” he began softly. “You're gonna stay right here on this bed, and you're not gonna look at glass, or anything else that has a reflection, okay? And as long as you do that, she cannot get you.”

“But I can't keep that up forever. I'm gonna die, aren't I?” Charlie’s voice trembled.

“No. No. Not anytime soon,” the brunet assured her. 

You sat on the floor in front of her and put a hand on her knee. “We need to know what happened, babe.”

“We were in the bathroom.” Her eyes brimmed with tears again. “Donna said it.”

“That's not what we're talking about,” Dean stated. There was something dark behind his tone. “Something happened, didn't it? In your life— .a secret— where someone got hurt. Can you tell us about it?”

The tears were flowing from her eyes now. “I had this boyfriend. I loved him. But he kind of scared me too, you know? And one night, at his house, we got in this fight. Then I broke up with him, and he got upset, and he said he needed me and he loved me, and he said "Charlie, if you walk out that door right now, I'm gonna kill myself." And you know what I said? I said "Go ahead." And I left. How could I say that? How could I leave him like that? I just...I didn't believe him, you know? I should have.” She pulled her knees back to her chest and buried her face between them. 

You felt completely horrible for her. But there was no time for a therapy session because you and the boys were off to that Toledo antique store where Mary’s mirror was being kept.

Dean sped down the road despite the pouring rain which you deeply wanted to protest against. You remained silent anyway.

“You know, her boyfriend killing himself, that's not really Charlie's fault.” Dean broke the silence.

“You know spirits don't exactly see shades of gray, Dean. Charlie had a secret, somebody died, and that's good enough for Mary,” you told him.

“I guess,” he shrugged.

“You know, I've been thinking. It might not be enough to just smash that mirror,” Sam chimed in.

Dean turned his head to his brother. “Why, what do you mean?”

“Well, Mary's hard to pin down, right? I mean she moves around from mirror to mirror, so who's to say that she's not just gonna keep hiding in them forever? So maybe we should try to pin her down, you know, summon her to her mirror and then smash it.”

“Well, how do you know that's going to work?” Dean asked. 

Sam shook his head. “I don't; not for sure.”

“Well who's gonna summon her?” his brother’s tone got a little panicked.

“I will. She'll come after me,” Sam replied solemnly.

“You know what, that's it.” Dean pulled over to the side of the road. “This is about Jessica, isn't it? You think that's your dirty little secret that you killed her somehow? Sam, this has got to stop, man. I mean, the nightmares and calling her name out in the middle of the night— it's gonna kill you. Now, listen to me, it wasn't your fault. If you wanna blame something, then blame the thing that killed her. Or hell, why don't you take a swing at me? I mean I'm the one that dragged you away from her in the first place.”

“I don't blame you.” Sam’s voice cracked.

“Well, you shouldn't blame yourself, because there's nothing you could've done,” Dean responded sharply.

Sam tried to shake his emotion away. “I could've warned her.”

“About what? You didn't know what was gonna happen! And besides, all of this isn't a secret, I mean I know all about it. It's not gonna work with Mary anyway,” Dean said.

“No you don't,” was all Sam could muster.

“I don't what?” 

“You don't know all about it. I haven't told you everything.”

You had been trying to stay out of it, but couldn’t hold it back anymore. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, it wouldn't really be a secret if I told you, would it?” 

You and Dean were taken aback. “No. I don't like it. It's not gonna happen, forget it.” 

“Guys, that girl back there is going to die unless we do something about it. And you know what? Who knows how many more people are gonna die after that? Now we're doing this. You've got to let me do this.”

Dean gripped the steering wheel, clenched his jaw, and pulled back out onto the road. The air was heavy and tense in the car. You sat back in your chair with your arms crossed over your chest. No one spoke for the rest of the drive.

When you reached the shop, you picked the lock on the door to reveal dozens of mirrors. 

“Well, that's just great,” Dean grumbled. He pulled out the picture you’d gotten from the detective in Indiana of Mary’s body next to the mirror. “Alright, let's start looking.”

The three of you split up. You were an incredibly detail-oriented person, but even still, all of the mirrors seemed the same to you. 

“Maybe they've already sold it,” Dean called from across the room.

Your flashlight came to rest on a mirror you could swear you’d seen before. “I don't think so. C’mere, Dean.”

He came over to you and held up the photo to the mirror. And sure enough, it was a match. 

“You sure about this?” Dean asked his brother. 

Sam nodded and handed you his flashlight. Taking a deep breath, he says, “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.”

You whipped your head in the direction of a light coming through the store.

“I'll go check that out. Stay here, be careful,” Dean ordered. “Smash anything that moves.” He crawled away from you and you heard him distantly say, “Crap.”

You paid no mind to Dean as you tightened your grip on the crowbar. 

You heard a whooshing sound behind you and wheeled around. In the mirror was Mary. You sprang to action and smashed your crowbar through the dead center of it. 

You could hear a distorted version of Sam’s voice coming from behind you, but before you could aid him, your own reflection caught your attention. It wasn’t quite syncing with your movements; instead looking at you menacingly. 

Before you could move to hit it, you felt an insane pressure coming from behind your eyes, your throat constricted, and blood began to ooze down your face. 

“You can’t keep running, (Y/N),” your reflection told you. “How could you? How could you be so careless?”

The blood dripping from your eyes began to mix with your tears. You didn’t have enough breath to protest. You began to sink to the floor, the crowbar clanging to the ground.

“It’s your fault that they’re gone. Why didn’t you try harder? Why didn’t you fight to keep them alive? Why did you have to kill them? Your guilt should eat you alive. You don’t deserve another family. You know you don’t deserve to be happy again. You know your recklessness will get these boys killed, too. You are so selfish! And your brother! If you hadn’t done what you did, he would still be alive, too. You are worthless. All you bring is death and—” 

The pressure around your throat released when Dean’s crowbar went through the mirror. He barely spared you a second look before going over to his brother. 

“Sam, Sammy!” you heard from behind you. 

You clutched at your throat and began to cry. You knew Dean had turned cold once more because he heard what your reflection said.

Sam groaned in pain as you saw Dean shouldering his brother and pulling him toward the exit of the shop. 

“C’mon, (Y/N),” Sam urged you. 

You shakily stood and did your best to follow the brothers out. Your dizziness caused you to fall back down to the ground on top of shards of glass, making you yelp as they pierced your hands. 

“Help her, Dean!” you heard Sam demand. 

Dean came to your side, clearly in no hurry, and cradled you in his arms. Before he could get anymore than two steps, you noticed Mary crawling out of the frame of her original mirror. Her dark hair was matted and fell in front of her face. Her dress was tattered, and her limbs moved in an inhuman manner; cracking with every movement. You and Dean were sent flying across the floor toward Sam, and the bleeding of your eyes started again.

You looked to the mirror inches from your head. Despite your weakness, you forced yourself to grab it and turn its face toward Mary.

“You killed them!” you heard her reflection cry. “All those people! You killed them!” Mary started choking just as you had and then melted into a pool of blood on the ground. You threw the mirror you’d been holding and shattered it completely.

You dropped your head back to the floor.

“Hey Sam?” you heard Dean say.

“Yeah?”

“This has got to be like,what, six hundred years of bad luck?” the older brother joked. 

Sam chuckled weakly. You couldn’t even muster up a laugh due to the bile rising in your throat. Memories were eating away at you, and the fact that Dean had heard your reflection was only adding to your anxiety. Your breath began to quicken, but you did your best to soothe yourself.

“(Y/N).” Sam drew you out of your trance. “Can you stand?” 

You tried your best to, but couldn’t. Dean squatted down next to you. “C’mon.” He motioned for you to let him carry you. You complied. You looked up at his chiseled face. You swore he was handcrafted by the gods; perhaps Adonis himself. Your hazy mind couldn’t focus on anything aside from his beautiful green eyes. You had so much to say to him about what he’d heard. You knew he didn’t think highly of you, but your relationship had begun to get better. You didn’t want, well, you, to ruin it all now. 

“Dean, I—” you started.

He cut you off. “We’ll talk later,” he said gruffly. Despite his cold and guarded tone, he put you down gently in the back of the Impala.

You ended up falling asleep in the back of the Impala. When you next awoke, you had been tucked into your bed in the motel. Your boots had been discarded, your jacket had been removed, and your key that you kept in your jacket pocket was now on the nightstand beside you. The gesture was sweet, but your mind immediately started reeling about the conversation you needed to have with Dean. 

You checked the clock; it was ten in the morning. You were surprised how late you had slept, and figured the boys had dropped Charlie off; potentially had even left town without you. Your anxiety getting the best of you, you rushed over to their door. Dean opened it when you knocked.

“Hey,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he echoed.

“Can we talk?”

He nodded. 

You led Dean back to your room. You sat cross-legged on your bed and Dean chose the chair across from you.

“Okay, um,” you sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Who’d you kill, (Y/N)?” came his straightforward and dry response. “Why did it say you’d get us killed, too?”

You looked down at the floor, the tears beginning to well up in your waterline. “I wanna tell you, I just—”

“Look at me.” His voice was firm.

You did.

“I need to know.”

You took a deep breath. “When I was eighteen, I was coming back home from one of my first solo hunts. My dad had sent me to take out a vampire nest on the edge of the town we were staying in. There were only three vamps there at the time. I got so excited that I had nuked them all, I didn’t account for the fact that all three of them seemed like newbies. I didn’t… register, I guess, that one or more was probably missing.” You averted his gaze, struggling to keep your voice level. “And so, I left. I went back to the house we were squatting in, and, um, one of them followed me.” Tears began to roll down your cheeks.

“Sweetheart, that’s not your—”

You shook your head. “It is. He turned them, Dean. He turned my mom and my dad. I— I had no choice. I had to—” Your sentence was cut off by a sob, but Dean understood what you meant. You wiped a hand over your face and did your best to continue your story. “I sat with their bodies for a long time after. When my brother came back and saw what I’d done, he drew his gun on me. He, um, he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t let me explain. He couldn’t shoot me, though. He… He just… left. And then— And then, his best friend called me a few days later.” The tears came back. “He found my brother’s car.” You pressed a hand to your mouth. “And he was dead in it.” Broken sobs wracked your body once again. “It’s my fault that they’re gone, Dean, it’s my fault.”

You couldn’t bear to look at him. You knew how disgusted he must be with you. And then, you felt the bed dip beside you. Then, a hand on your arm. Then, he pulled you to his chest, and you melted into his embrace. Your cries still shook your body, but Dean’s strong arms held you together. He sat with you like that for a long time. 

You and the boys had decided to leave Toledo sooner rather than later after Sam told you what Dean had done to the cops in front of the antique store. Long after leaving Toledo, Dean broke the comfortable silence that had settled over the car.

“Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Now that this is all over, I want you to tell me what that secret is.”

The younger Winchester sighed. “Look, you're my brother and I'd die for you, but there are some things I need to keep to myself.”

Your eyes remained trained on Sam as he looked out the window at something you were passing by. His expression went from confused to scared to saddened, and you knew he was seeing Jessica. After all, you had no doubt your face mirrored his every time you saw your mom standing on a street corner or your dad’s bloodied body lying in your footpath. In time, you knew he would learn to live with it just as you had. 

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz

[underground-secret]

The Hunter and the Witch~ Dean Winchester x F! reader

Description: When Dean gets a call from an "old friend" asking for help, old feelings resurface leaving for messy feelings and a complicated hunt.

Warnings: canon violence, feelings of unrequited love, angst, loving someone being difficult, corpses, crime scenes, cursing, mentions of racism, racist ghost truck?

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld , @okayiamkassandra , @fablesrose , @ada--44 , @bonkydarnes , @star-yawnznn , @crazyunsexycool

Word Count: 9,251

Route 666

(Master list, Prev Ch, Next Chapter)

I lean against the expanse of the Impala, letting the bright sun shine over me. It was one of those cold but not cold days, where as long as the sun was hitting you it was perfectly right. Sam is next to me looking over the large map he has laid out on the hood of the car, trying to look for a way around a closed-off road.

I’m glad he knew what he was doing ‘cause my map and geography skills only went so far before I was lost.

Meanwhile, Dean was off to the side, his phone pressed to his ear his brows furrowed whoever he was talking to was clearly telling him something important and maybe shocking.

“Ok. I think I found a way we can bypass that construction just East of here,” Sam informs gaining my attention, “We might even make Pennsylvania faster than we thought.” I nod, taking advantage of his hunched-over figure to ruffle his hair, “Nice work, map man.” He snorts, rolling his eyes as he pushes my arm away playfully.

“Yeah. ‘Problem is, we’re not going to Pennsylvania” Dean points out, closing his phone and looking at it thoughtfully. I look at him confused, “We aren’t…?” He nods, wetting his lips, “I just got a call from an, uh, old friend. Her father was killed last night, think it might be our kind of thing.”

“What?” Sam vocalizes. “Yeah. Believe me, she never woulda called, never, if she didn’t need us” Dean clarifies. Without giving us any more information or even a chance to contemplate or counter his statement he gets in the car, “Come on, are you coming or not?”

The Impala cruises down the expanse of the road, a long beautifully green field on one side and a lake on the other. “By old friend you mean…?” Sam asks the question we were both undeniably thinking. “A friend that’s not new” Dean grumbles.

“Oh! Thanks, genius” I remark, he was being weird and that alone was not helping his case. “‘Said her name’s Cassie huh?” Sam said, trying a different angle, “You never mentioned her…”

“Didn’t I?” Dean remarks. He wasn't very good at hiding this one, the car falling silent in the wake of his stupid answer. He finally huffs, “Yeah, we went out.”

“You mean you dated somebody?” Sam asks with a snort, “For more than one night?”

“Oh come on Sammy we're all adults here, we’ve all dated before” I chime in with a smirk. He turns around in his seat, facing me with an expectant look, “Are we talking about the same person here? Dean doesn't date.” Sam exclaims and I push down the ache of that implication, “And aren’t you the least bit curious.”

“Oh no, I am,” I nod enthusiastically, laughing lightly, “I want all the details. I was just tryna be nice.”

He snickers, turning back to his brother, “You heard her, we want all the details.”

I swear Dean’s eye practically twitches, “Am I speaking a language you’re not getting here? Dad and I were working a job in Ohio, she was finishing up college. We went out for a coupla weeks.” 

I want to ask how long ago this was, was it months before his dad disappeared or a year or more ago, but I hold back on my questioning. “And…?” Sam pushes. Dean shrugs slightly.

“Look, it’s terrible about her dad, but it kinda sounds like a standard car accident. I’m not seeing how it fits with what we do,” Sam reasons, “Which by the way, how does she know what we do?”

Dean doesn't answer again, silently shifting in his seat uncomfortably. The realization hits me like a brick, “Oh. My. God,” I lean forward in my seat almost getting choked out by my seatbelt, “You told her! You broke the number one hunting rule! You know, not telling anyone, ever!”

“More than that!” Sam adds, “It’s our big family rule. Number one. We do what we do and we shut up about it. For a year and a half, I did nothing but lie to Jessica, and you go out with this chick in Ohio a coupla times and you tell her everything?!” I try not to think about my own relationships both romantic and not that rarely ever made it past a couple of months before it ended, not only having to lie about being a hunter but a witch too. Dean stays silent, staring straight ahead, “Dean!” Sam yells.

“Yeah. Looks like,” he finally acknowledges. He continues to stare ahead, pressing his foot down harder on the gas pedal. Sam shakes his head, giving his brother his classic bitchface.

“Oh. He had it bad” I laugh leaning back in my seat, ignoring the sinking and stabbing feeling in my heart. I figured I’d have to keep doing so on this hunt.

The office was dark, the bright sunlight not able to stretch upon the large room not even with the help of glass doors. The place could really open a couple of blinds, let the light shine in.

An old white man with an interesting-looking tie, one of those Western ones with the jewel and black tether, talks to two people a man and a woman their backs towards us. And the way Dean pauses, staring at the woman it isn't hard to deduce she's Cassie. She and the older black gentlemen next to her seem to be having some sort of dispute with the old white guy.

Then suddenly both of the men walk away, clearly frustrated, leaving Cassie to stand there herself. She turns around swiftly, and almost like a perfectly curated romance movie she nearly hits Dean only inches separating the two. I didn't even realize he had moved forward in the time we've been standing here. 

Just looking at her I could tell why Dean fell for her, she's beautiful more than that. She could be a model with her beautiful long dark curls framing her face, full lips colored red, and big brown eyes. She must have stepped out of a magazine, everything about her screamed perfect down to her perfectly shaped eyebrows and perfect nose. “Dean,” she says, her voice smooth despite the look of slight apprehension.

He nods and grins, “Hey Cassie.” And they just stare at each other. He's looking at her in a way I’ve never seen him look at anyone before even despite the tension that hung in the air, unspoken words from however long ago.

His eyes seem to glimmer, you’d have to be a fool not to see he still has feelings for her, that they never went away in the first place. And that it’s more than just any feelings, he loves her and that is a hard pill to swallow.

He clears his throat, breaking the trance they were both in, “This is my brother Sam. And my friend Y/N.” She smiles at each of us before her gaze reverts to Dean, not that I could blame her in the slightest.

“Sorry ‘bout your dad,” he says.

“Yeah. Me too,” she answers.

Her family home was beautiful and extraordinarily large, it was a bit disturbing. Though maybe that was because it reminded me of my home before moving to Kansas, or at least what I remember of it. We sat in the sitting room on vintage settees, another reminder of that home–my mother would quite like the look of this cozy room. 

Cassie finally comes back adorning a tray of tea cups and a teapot along with the little bowl of sugar and a small pouring cup of milk, could she get any more perfect and wonderful? “My mothers in pretty bad shape. I’ve been staying with her. I wish she wouldn’t go off by herself. She’s been so nervous and frightened. She was worried about Dad,” she explains.

“Why?” Dean asks as she takes a seat across from us. He was watching her every move as if dedicating it to memory, I wonder if he’s thinking ‘She moves in the same manner she used to’ or maybe that it changed. Suddenly I was not so okay with sitting between the boys even though that's almost how we always sat when talking to someone on a hunt, as it made it harder for them to fight and made them slightly more comfortable with squishing into sofas with their large frames. But now, being in the middle I could easily watch how he looked at her, studied her.

She skillfully pours tea into each cup, “He was scared. He was seeing things.”

“Like what?” He asked.

“He swore he saw an awful-looking black truck following him,” she responds carefully.

“A truck, did he see a driver?” I ask, diligently accepting the beautiful teacup she handed me. I take a careful sip of the black tea, of course she would know and pick the perfect tea for guests. Does she have any flaws?

“He didn’t talk about a driver,” she answers, “Just the truck. He said it would appear and disappear. And, in the accident, Dad’s car was dented, like it had been slammed into by something big.”

Sam accepts his cup of tea, “Thanks. Now you’re sure this dent wasn’t there before?” And as predictable as Dean was he looked at his cup weirdly before depositing it back on the tray, that man was not a tea person he’d take a coffee or a beer any day. I think the only reason he drank the tea I gave him when he was sick was because he knew how desperate Sammy and I were. 

“He sold cars. Always drove a new one. There wasn’t a scratch on that thing,” she explains, “It had rained hard that night. There was mud everywhere. There was a distinct set of muddy tracks leading from Dad’s car…leading right to the edge, where he went over.” She swallows harshly, bowing her head, “One set of tracks. His.” 

Dean’s face softens, eyes filling with sympathy, “The first was a friend of your father's?” She nods, “Best friend. Clayton Soames. They owned the car dealership together. Same thing. Dent. No tracks. And the cops said exactly what they said about Dad. He ‘lost control of his car.’”

I force my brain to rid itself of any thoughts of Dean and Cassie's relationship. This was like any other hunt, something weird is going on and we are here to help, nothing more.

It was weird, cars don't just drive off the road like that and then have newly made dents that match another vehicle. “Is there any reason you can think of as to why your father and his partner might've been targets? Competition?” I ask. She shakes her head, radiating certainty, “No.”

“And you think this vanishing truck ran them off the road?” Sam points out.

“When you say it aloud like that…,” she sighs, “listen, I’m a little skeptical about this…ghost stuff…or whatever it is you guys are into.”

Dean huffs, “Skeptical. If I remember, I think you said I was nuts.” 

“That was then,” she bites back. Then they fall back into that thing where they just stare at each other, “I just know that I can’t explain what happened up there. So I called you,” she adds, directing her words only to him. I clear my throat, weary of the bubble they seem to have put around themselves, “You were right in calling” I reasoned softly, “It is very strange and on the off chance it isn’t anything supernatural then it was certainly a cover-up.”

Her perfect eyebrows furrow but before she can respond the sound of the front door opening catches all of our attention, a middle-aged white woman enters through and I assume it's her mother. She shared her mother's eye shape and her nose, but the rest of her she must have gotten from her father.

As if we had gotten caught we all rise from the sofa. Cassie goes over to her mother, taking her arm, “Mom. Where have you been I was so…” her mother cuts her off looking at us, “I had no idea you'd invited friends over.”

“Mom, this Dean, a…friend of mine from…college. ‘His brother Sam and friend Y/N.”

“Well, I won’t interrupt you” her mother smiles nervously.

“Mrs Robinson,” Dean says suddenly, “We’re sorry for your loss. We’d like to talk to you for a minute if you don’t mind.” And as if offended she recoils, “I’m really not up for that right now.”

The morning sun is dimmer today, perfect for the scene we were walking upon. The man Cassie was standing with yesterday, Jimmy, was the newest victim. He died in the same way as the others sometime late last night. Cassie was again arguing with the old white man from yesterday. As we approached I could hear his condescending voice, “Close the man road. The only road in and out of town? Accidents do happen Cassie, and that’s what they are. Accidents.” 

We stand beside her, Dean speaking up immediately, “Did the cops check for additional denting on Jimmy’s car, see if it was pushed?” 

Without missing a beat and without looking away from Cassie the man asks, “Who’s this?”

“Dean and Sam Winchester, Y/N L/N. Family friends. This is Mayor Harold Todd” She replies smoothly. This man went from just any old white guy to a powerful old white guy, even worse. And he had two first names, you never trust someone with two first names. Reluctantly Mayor Old Guy answers Dean’s initial question, “There’s one set of tire tracks. One. ‘Doesn’t point to foul play.”

Cassie scuffs, “Mayor, the police, and town officials take their cues from you. If you’re indifferent about…” 

He cuts her off, “Indifferent!”

“Would you close the road if the victims were white?” she counters.

Oh. Could she get any more iconic?!

“You suggesting I’m racist Cassie?” He spits, “I’m the last person you should talk to like that.” 

“And why is that?” She counters, stepping closer to him.

“Why don’t you ask your mother” he answers before walking away. My jaw drops, what the hell is going on in this town?

I huff, blowing a piece of hair out of my face. I really didn’t want to get dressed, for as much as I’ve been trying to ignore the whole Dean and Cassie situation I was feeling horrible.

I sit on the soft motel bed in nothing but my underwear and a nice white button-down, haven given up on dressing. I feel stupid. Incredibly stupid.

Maybe Sam’s words had gotten to me, maybe I had gotten my hopes up without even realizing it.

He loves someone else, and he’s had for a while. I always thought when you love someone those feelings don’t ever truly go away, there's always a part of you with them. They wind up crossing your mind and you wonder where things went wrong. But I guess I never considered this would also apply to Dean, which is cruel to believe within itself. Which is funny too, all these years I’ve spent loving him…But Sam was right he didn’t date so I guess I assumed he never fell for anyone during his countless one-night stands.

I know death is cruel but maybe love is tied with it. Because I feel like someone took my heart and ran with it, leaving me with this void in my chest and an ache so intense that it throbs in its place. It was stupid to think I had a chance to begin with. I knew not to believe I had one in the first place, but somewhere along the line I had completely forgotten about any of that. So much for listening to my past self, if I had maybe I wouldn't be feeling so damn bad.

But I couldn't be mad. Cassie was wonderful in every possible way and you don't need to know her for long to realize that. They seemed perfect for each other really. She was feisty and had no issue putting someone in their place, which I quite admired, and I know Dean could use that every now and then. If she was a jerk I’m sure I’d have no issue disliking her, but she wasn’t! She was impossible to dislike, and it would be horrible of me to hate her just because she harbors feelings for someone that I love or the fact that he loves her back. That wasn't her fault, it was neither of their faults.

Loving someone has to be the hardest thing one could do.

I get up from the bed and put on my skirt. I couldn't sit here forever, the boys would come knocking and I wouldn't have a good excuse as to why I’m in a mood. Quickly I check myself in the mirror, at least I didn’t cry which means I don't gotta redo my makeup, even if it was minimal to begin with.

How do you stop loving someone? I could use that answer.

I knew I loved him for a long time, too long. But I suppose I didn’t realize just how bad it had gotten, how much it had flourished and I had never expected that to be possible. I love him.

I love him and it hurts so much.

How many times did I have the opportunity to tell him? It had to be in the hundreds. Maybe it was better that I didn’t, he loves someone else and I should be happy for them. I am happy for him. He deserves to be loved and be able to love. Yes, I am happy.

I approach the two older men having lunch, focusing on the wet ground and the wholesomeness that is them eating on a pier. “Hi, sorry. Are you Ron Stubbins?” I ask, taking the lead. I needed to throw myself into the work, I needed the distraction. The older man nods looking at us confused, his black cap bobbing with his head. “You were friends with Jimmy Anderson?” Dean follows up.

“Who are you?” Ron responds with, sitting up straighter. He was sizing us up, skeptical of us, which he had every right to be. “We’re Mr. Anderson’s insurance company. We’re just here to dot ‘I’s’ and cross ‘T’s’,” Dean explains, flashing his badge.

“And they needed to send three of you?” He counters. I giggle, tilting my head slightly, “Would you prefer me leaving?” I ask sweetly. And as predictable as men can be he drags his eyes across my body before shaking his head, “No. No. That won’t be necessary.” I ignore the dirty feeling that washes over me and sticks to my bones like a new layer of skin, it was necessary to do that because now he won’t bother questioning us anymore on that topic. 

“We were just wondering, had the deceased mentioned any unusual recent experiences?” Sam questions, getting back on topic. Reluctantly Ron looks away from me to look at the man who questioned him, “What do you mean, unusual?”

“Well visions, hallucinations” He elaborates. 

“We’re working with local psychologists to broaden our questioning and research,” I explain, trying to clear the confusion from his face, “It’s all very standard.”

“What company did you say you were with?” Ron counters. Maybe he was more on guard than I thought. “All National Mutual” Dean answers smoothly, “Tell me, did he ever mention seeing a truck? A big black truck?”

“What the hell ‘you talking about?” Ron exclaims, “‘You even speaking English?”

Wow, what a lovely guy.

“Son this truck, a big scary monster-looking thing?” Ron's friend suddenly says.

“Yeah actually, I think so” Dean answers. The man hums to himself in thought, please let this interaction be useful. “You’ve heard of something like that?” I ask the man. “I have,” he nods, not bothering to elaborate.

“You have. Where?” Sam pushes.

“Not where,” he finally answers, “When. Back in the ‘60s, there was a string of deaths. Black men. Story goes, they disappeared in a big, nasty, black truck.”

“They ever catch the guy?” I ask. He shrugs, “Never found him. Hell, not even sure they really looked. See there was a time, ‘this town wasn’t too friendly to all its citizens.”

“Thank you” Sam nods.

We walk away, heading back to the Impala. “Well, it seems like history is repeating itself,” I began, “From the lack of investigation and racism down to the–”

“Truck,” Dean says, finishing my sentence. “Keeps coming up doesn’t it?” Sam adds.

“You know, I was thinking. You heard of the Flying Dutchman?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, a ghost ship, infused with the Captian’s evil spirit. It was basically part of him” Sam answers, explaining the lore. Dean nods, “So what if we’re dealing with the same thing? You know, a phantom truck, an extension of some bastard’s ghost, re-enacting past crimes.”

“The victims have been black men” Sam continues the theory. I half-shrug, “I don't know. The town has to have more than a handful of black people, but it only seems to be going after specific people. It’s practically targeting those connected to Cassie and her family. I’m sure there’s some deeper link there.”

“That’s why I think it’s more than that,” Dean says.

“All right. Well, you work that angle, go talk to her,” Sam tells his brother specifically, clearly playing matchmaker. “Yeah, I will,” Dean agrees.

“Oh, and you might also wanna mention that other thing” Sam noted, a playful smile on his lips. Always the meddler. “What other thing?” Dean asks, either genuinely lost or faking it. “The serious, unfinished business?” Sam elaborates. I huff a laugh, “Yeah, seriously Dean it's so painfully obvious. Just talk to the girl.” It pained me to even suggest that, to motivate him in such a way but I want him to be happy, and if that means being with her then so be it.

Dean stops just as we reach the car, going obstinately silent. Sam huffs a laugh this time, “Dean, what is going on between you two?”

“All right, so maybe we were a little more involved than I said,” he finally admits. I give him a pointed look, “Yeah…that was obvious.” 

He huffs, “A lot more. Maybe. And I told her our secret, about what we do. And I shouldn’t have.”

“Ah look man, everybody’s gotta open up to someone sometime,” Sam reasons, being a little too understanding compared to how we were only yesterday. “Yeah I don’t,” Dean argues, “It was stupid to get that close. I mean, look how it ended.”

I smile at him softly, hoping any sadness is concealed far behind my eyes, and I realize Sam is giving him the same look except he’s nearly beaming. “Would you both stop!” he shouts. But we don't because this is a side of Dean we’ve never seen before, and it is beautiful even if it's heartbreaking for me. “Someone blink or something!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up.

“You loved her,” I say softly, the gape in my chest deepening at the verbal declaration. Saying it aloud was so much worse. “Oh God,” he groans, turning to the Impala. “You still do!” I call after him.

“You were in love with her, but you dumped her,” Sam states, connecting the pieces. Dean goes silent, staring at the ground, then carefully glances at his brother before reverting his eyes. “Oh wow. She dumped you.”

I have to stop myself from taking in a sharp breath, there was a lot to this he wasn’t telling us. But why would she break up with him if she still has feelings?

“Get in the car” Dean demands, done being “emotional” and open, “Get in the car!”

Sam hands me my hot chocolate, but not even the sweet treat or the soft snow falling just outside can lift my mood. It makes me feel a little better but it does not fix my heart. Dean didn’t come back last night and I know it’s because he spent the night at Cassie’s. I’m happy they worked things out and hopefully had a wonderful night but again it does not fix my heart.

I held the cup tighter, welcoming the immense warmth it brought to my frozen hands as we stepped out of the small coffee shop. The air was crisp yet gentle as the light fluffy snowflakes descended onto us, the cold flakes collecting in my hair. A small smile graced my face, maybe it was making me feel better. I like the cold, preferred it even, I was cozy in my thick turtle neck and my favorite fleeced-lined jacket. 

Sam and I walk in comfortable silence side by side, sipping from our cups and basking in the scenery of the unexpected snow. It was early May in Missouri, it really shouldn’t be snowing but I suppose if it could snow here a little in April then early May couldn't be that weird. Plus it was a light snow that likely wouldn't even stick. But the calming scenery is cut in half by an ambulance that speeds past us, sirens blaring. We share a questioning look but ultimately ignore it until two cop cars rush past us heading the same way. That we can’t ignore. With another shared look, we follow after the sirens.

I look out at the macabre scene, the yellow caution tape not having stopped me from investigating thanks to the use of a fake ID. The body had been bagged after countless photos were taken, but the blood of Mayor Todd still stains the streets. It was a gruesome scene, arguably worse than the others in this case his organs squished out like roadkill and, truthfully, that’s what he had become. 

“L/N” Sam calls out from just a few feet behind me. I turned around swiftly, the snow whirling around me, Dean stood next to his brother. He came. 

I walk over to the two boys, watching Dean’s clear expression of shock masked by annoyance, “‘You gonna ask me a bunch of questions too?” he asks. I look at him confused, “...no” I drag out slowly. His face seems to relax slightly, something unrecognizable passing in his eyes, “Good,” he nods. 

“I already know you made up–made out” I add, his face drops, “Anyways, crime scene,” I point behind me.

“Every bone crushed. Internal organs turned to pudding,” Sam explains the case, catching his brother up, “The cops are all stumped, it’s like something ran him over.” The wind picks up again, swirling the snow in its own private storm, the cold will help with the case as it preserves the body longer. “Something like a truck?” Dean asks, gaining his footing in the case.

“Yeah, except of course there’s no tracks” I answer. He nods, rubbing a hand down his jaw and I have to force my eyes away from the movement, “What was the Mayor doing here anyway?”

“He owned the property. Bought it a few weeks ago” Sam says referring to the building site.

“But he’s white, doesn’t fit the pattern,” Dean points out. Sam nods, “Killings didn’t happen up on the road. That doesn’t fit either.”

I shove my hands into my pocket, taking a quick look back at the crime scene before turning back to the boys, “Then it seems like this case is one of revenge.”

I shuffle through the papers in front of me, glad that I was sent to do research at the town's main library rather than be at the newspaper office with the boys and Cassie. She was probably looking at him all sweetly and being a kind person, and I did not wish to see the loving way they looked at each other. And if avoiding that meant having my nose in dusty boxes of court records then that was okay.

I pull out my phone calling Sam directly instead of Dean, the phone rings a couple of times before he picks up, “Hi” I greet, “I got some info.”

The line goes quiet for a second before I hear his voice, “Alright you're on speaker.”

“Ok, so,” I start, balancing my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I look over the papers, “I have courthouse records here, and according to them Mr and Mrs Mayor bought an abandoned property. The previous owner was the Dorian family who owned it for, like, 150 years.”

“Dorian?” Dean repeats back. “Yes.”

His voice grows quieter but still in range enough for me to hear, “Didn’t you say the Dorian family used to own this paper?” he asks someone else in the room. “Along with everything else around here. Real pillars of the town,” Cassie answers. “Right, right” Dean responds followed by the clicking of keys.

“You got something there?” I ask, readjusting my phone. 

“Think so” Sam mumbles, seemingly focused on whatever was happening over at the office.

“This Cyrus Dorian. He vanished in April of ‘63. The case was investigated but never solved. It was right around the time the string of murders was going on back then,” Dean informs, adding more information to what that man yesterday had told us.

“Well to add to that information, the Dorian place seemed to be in really bad shape when the Mayber bought it,” I add, “He bulldozed the place.”

“Mayor Todd knocked down the Dorian place?” Dean asks, presumably, Cassie. “It was a big deal” she answers, “One of the oldest houses left. He made the front page.” I huff a breath, everything connecting yet leaving so many questions at the same time. “You got a date, Y/N?” Dean calls back.

“Um,” I hum shuffling the papers around and reading over the words quickly, “‘3rd of last month.” The line goes quiet again the only sound ringing back being the sharp noise of fingers on a keyboard, “Mayor Todd bulldozed the Dorian family home on the 3rd,” Dean finally responds, “The first killing was the next day.”

Pouring the boiled water into the mug I take a quick look back, Dean kneels in front of the shaken-up Cassie rubbing her knee softly and looking at her with pure determination and adoration. I swallow roughly looking back at the mugs in front of me, nearly overspilling and burning myself. 

This was not the time to grieve a love that never happened. Cassie called Dean afraid, having seen the black truck. We were here to help, I was making a soothing herbal tea for her and her mother to calm the nerves. 

Finishing with the mugs I carefully carry them into the sitting room. Sam takes one from me, gently handing it to her mother. I hand the mug to Cassie, her shaky hands accepting and rattling the cup, Dean immediately moves to sit at her side but it does not stop his protectiveness if anything it amplifies it; he practically radiates it. “Maybe you should throw a couple of shots in here,” she says, half joking.

I huff a laugh, “Well while the effects of alcohol do have the capabilities of easing the central nervous system, when the effects wear off your body will be jolted back from its depressive state which would really only make you feel worse, more anxious as well as stressed.”

She gives me a half, almost awkward, smile before taking a sip from her mug. Did I say too much? Why didn’t someone stop me? Someone should’ve just cut me off, especially if I wasn’t helping.

“You didn’t see who was driving the truck,” Sam says suddenly, pulling the awkwardness out of the air. “It seemed to be no one. Everything was moving so fast. And then it was just gone,” she explains, “Why didn’t it kill us?”

“Whoever was controlling the truck wants you afraid first,” Dean answers. This would explain why at least one of the victims had seen it and truthfully thought they were going mad. “Mrs Robinson,” Sam began, “Cassie said that your husband saw the truck before he died.” Mrs Robinson doesn't answer, seemingly lost in her mind as she shakes. “Mom?” Cassie says carefully, worry laced in her voice.

The older Robinson shakes her head nervously, “Oh. Martin was under a lot of stress. You can’t be sure about what he was seeing.”

“Well after tonight I think we can be reasonably sure he was seeing a truck. What happened tonight, you and Cassie are marked. Ok?” Dean snaps, “Your daughter could die. So if you know something now would be a really good time to tell us about it.”

“Dean…” Cassie warns. But her mother's face contorts in emotion, something in her breaking, “Yes. Yes, he said he saw a truck.”

“Did he know who it belonged to?” Sam asks, taking a seat across from the woman. “He thought he did,” she answers cryptically. “Who was that?” Dean pushes. Her eyes get watery and she sinks into herself, “Cyrus. A man named Cyrus.”

My gaze flickers to the boys, we are all thinking the same thing, I look back at her, “By any chance was it Cyrus Dorian?” I ask carefully. Dean pulls out a newspaper from inside his coat, handing it to the woman. She doesn't shake her head or nod only replying with, “Cyrus Dorian died more than 40 years ago.”

“How do you know he died, Mrs Robinson?” Dean asks softly, “The papers said he went missing. How do you know he died?” 

She hesitates, her mouth agape like a fish out of water or in reality that of a person who got caught, “We were all very young,” she says, “I dated Cyrus a while, I was also seeing Martin…in secret of course. Interracial couples didn’t go over too well back then. When I broke it off with Cyrus and when he found out about Martin, I don’t know, he, changed. His hatred. His hatred was frightening.”

“The murder,” Sam voices.

Her voice wobbles, “They were rumors. People of color disappearing into some kind of truck. Nothing ‘ever done,” she swallows shifting in her seat, “Martin and a…Martin and I, we were gonna be, uh, married in that little church near here, but last minute we decided to elope as we didn’t want the attention.” She pushes her short hair out of her face, stressed. “And what became of Cyrus?” I ask.

Endless tears fall down her cheeks, “The day we set for the wedding, was the day someone set fire to the church. There was a children’s choir practicing in there. They all died.” I suppress the gasp that wishes to leave my lips, the room seems to dim with the information. What was meant to be a beautiful day was soiled by the blood of innocents.

“Did the attacks stop after that?” Sam asks softly, careful of her fragile mindset.

A sob escapes from her chest, “No! There was one more. One night that truck came for Martin. Cyrus beat him terribly. But Martin, you see, Martin got loose. And he started hitting Cyrus and he just kept hitting him and hitting him.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops?” Dean pushes. She continues to cry, “This was forty years ago. He called on his friends, Clayton Soames and Jimmy Anderson, and they put Cyrus’ body into the truck and they rolled it into the swamp at the end of his land and all three of them kept that secret all of these years.” 

“And now all three are gone,” Sam acknowledges. This all confirms the theory of a vengeful spirit. “And so is Mayor Todd,” Dean adds, “Now he said that you of all people would know he is not a racist. Why would he say that?”

“He was a good man,” Mrs Robinson answers, “He was a young deputy back then investigating Cyrus’ disappearance. Once he figured out what Martin and the others had done he…he did nothing, because he also knew what Cyrus had done.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cassie asks, her voice hard yet full of emotion. I couldn't imagine what was going on in her head, to find out something like this–“I thought I was protecting them. And now there’s no one left to protect,” her mother reasons.

“Yes, there is” Dean counters, fiercely. His green eyes harden with determination as he looks at Cassie.

I sit on the cold hood of the Impala, gently kicking my legs back and forth watching Dean pace in front of me. Sam leans against the car next to me, his arms crossed as he too watches his brother, “Ah, my life was so simple. Just school, exams, papers on polycentric cultural norms…”

I look at him with an amused smile, “I have no idea what that last part is but it sounds fun!” That stops Dean in his tracks for just a half of a second, he points at us, “No it doesn’t. I saved him from a boring existence.”

“Yeah, occasionally I miss boring” Sam reasons. I nod enthusiastically, “Honestly, we have not had a normal day in like months. Kinda miss it.”

Dean brushes our light complaining off, “So this killer truck–”

“I miss conversations that didn’t start with ‘this killer truck’” Sam quips with a dramatic sigh. I failed to hold back my laughter, Dean laughs lightly and for a brief moment, things feel how they used to, “Well this Cyrus guy. Evil on a level that infected even his truck. When he died, the swamp became his tomb, and his spirit was dormant for 40 years.”

“So what woke it up?” Sam asks.

“The construction on his house. Or the destruction,” Dean points out. 

“Right. Demolition or remodeling can awaken spirits, make them restless” Sam recalls. His brother hums a ‘yes’, nodding.

“Like that theater in Illinois, ya know?” Sam references, and I in fact had no idea what he was talking about. “And the guy that tore down the family homestead, Harold Todd, is the same guy that kept Cyrus’ murder quiet and unsolved,” Dean adds, bringing it back to the case at hand.

“So now his spirit is awakened and out for blood,” Sam acknowledges. 

“Yeah, I guess. Who knows what ghosts are thinking anyway” Dean shrugs. 

“Wait, does this mean we have to go swimming in that swamp?” I ask. I mean if we had to salt and burn the bones then we would need said bones which are in a swamp, how nice. Dean smiles at me, I know that look. “No” I warn, pointing at him like an animal that did something wrong. “You said it” he rationalizes. 

“Noooo” I whine a pout on my lips, “Do I have to do it alone?”

His wicked smile deepens, “‘Course not, Sammy’s gonna be with you.”

Sam’s shoulders drop, “Man,” he sighs. 

Suddenly a familiar figure approaches, her hands tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. Dean stands up straighter, “Hey.” She smiles sadly, “Hey. She’s asleep. Now what?”

“Well, you should stay put, look after her…and we’ll be back. Don’t leave the house,” Dean explains, looking at her in that way that hurts my heart. But she smiles, any worry melting off her face, “Don’t go getting all authoritative on me. I hate it.”

Dean glances back at us, Sam looks down grinning acting as if neither of us could hear the conversation. He turns back to Cassie mumbling something I can't quite make out but whatever it was must have been good because he slowly leans in to kiss her. I drop my head and gaze at the very interesting ground, trying my best to ignore the sound of their intensifying making out. A pang of jealousy, longing, and pain shoots through my chest. If the ground wanted to just open up and consume me now I wouldn’t complain, I’d even help it and just throw myself in it wouldn’t have to work very hard. Sam clears his throat, I look up but Dean just holds out a finger to wait as he brings Cassie even closer.

I drop my eyes again. 

Loving someone never hurt so bad. Loving him never hurt so bad. 

Was it wrong to love him? Was this always going to be my fate? To see him evermore with other girls, loving them more than he could ever love me. 

“You two comin’ or what?” Dean asks. I look up once more and this time his lips aren’t on Cassie.

I tug on the chain again, making sure it's secure, my hands getting wet in the process. I wipe my icky hands off on my jeans as I back away, “Alright he’s good,” I call out to Sam who stands feet away from me, closer to the butt of the pickup Dean was driving. He gives a thumbs up to his brother who begins to move the car forward, the pickup moving slowly in the weight of the heavy truck and water pressure.

We had already gotten it up a lot, but it had gotten stuck on the side of the swamp so we had to readjust its hold to get it the rest of the way up. 

The years in the water had diminished it. The old black truck was now more like a rust bucket, remains of the swamp water spilling out from the seams. “All right. A little more…little more,” Sam leads, “All right, stop.” 

The engine shuts off and Dean heads to the Impala, he pulls it open rummaging through the various weapons. “Now I know what she sees in you” Sam declares with a snap of his finger, meaning he finally understood what that look in her eyes meant. “What?” Dean asks.

“Come on man, you can admit it. You’re still in love with her” Sam clarifies. I nod even though the implications hurt, “Plus it’s not like no one else knows. So the only person you’re hiding from is yourself.”

Dean looks up from the trunk, “Uhh, can we focus please.”

I purse my lips, “Yeah…focusing has never really been our strong suit…” A container of salt is pressed into my chest, “Hold that” Dean says swiftly.

His expression hardens, all jokes put to rest as he dishes out items, “Gas” he says first, handing the large container to his brother, “Flashlights,” he lists out next filling my empty hand with one. 

“Ok, let’s get this done,” he quips, closing the trunk.

We trudge back over to the rusty truck, our flashlights leading our way across the grass. Dean places his hand on the handle and I must wonder how he isn’t grossed out by just the feeling of the flaked paint and rotting metal. He glances at us in a silent ‘you ready?’ We give a nod and he opens the door.

A decaying wet corpse falls out the door and onto the soft grass, a small gush of water following its lead. I leap back like a scared cat, clasping a hand to my mouth and nose the decomposition of the body as well as its marinating in swamp water left a putrid smell. One perhaps worse than anything I've ever smelt before which was saying something considering what I’ve hunted. 

“All right let’s get to it,” Dean says. Sam pours the gasoline all over the body, careful not to get it close to us and I jump in with the salt, opening the little latchet to sprinkle the small white crystals over the open-mouthed corpse. The satisfying scratch and flick of a match sounds softly beside me in the quiet night followed by the drop of the matchstick on the body. In mere seconds the remains go up in flames, the warm glow of the fire reflecting on the truck just beside it. I hoped no one would come looking over here with the whirl of smoke twirling above us, the heat powerful enough for me to take another step back. 

“Think that’ll do it?” Sam voices, staring down at the burning corpse. But his question is followed by the revving of an engine and two blinding lights pointed at us. Without looking in the direction I knew it was the ghost truck. “I guess not,” Dean quips.

 “So burning the body had no effect on that thing?” the younger Winchester asks. “Sure it did. Now it’s really pissed,” Dean responds. I glare at him, “I don't know if this is the time for cool jokes.”

“But Cyrus’ ghost is gone, right Dean?” Sam asks, a hint of panic in his voice as the tuck stares us down. But his brother doesn't answer right away, instead, he starts to walk away, “Apparently not the part that’s fused with the truck.”

 I go on my tip toes trying to peak into the truck, maybe we missed something like a severed piece of him that didn’t spill out but before I can vocalize this Sam is calling out to his brother, “Where are you going?” I turn around, catching up to the boys, “Goin’ for a little ride,” Dean answers as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What?!” Sam and I exclaim in unison, “That’s a horrible idea!” I add. But he ignores our concern, “Gonna lead that thing away. That busted piece of crap, you gotta burn it.”

“How the hell are we supposed to burn a truck, Dean?” Sam asks, voice raising in volume. But being the determined man he is he shrugs, “I don’t know. Figure something out.” He rounds the car, opening the driver's door, “At least let one of us come with you, this is horribly dangerous,” I try to reason.

His eyes move up and down my face, before he settles on my eyes once more, “‘Exactly why you’re not comin’ with.” Before I can come up with a retort on how stubborn he is he settles himself into the car, closing the door behind him. I look to Sam for any support on this but he just stares at the car muttering, “Figure some–something–”

I rack my brain for ideas because Dean wasn’t going to listen and would rather be all hot and stubborn than be reasonable, “An explosion?” I suggest. Sam shakes his head, “No, that wouldn’t work. Parts would go everywhere and everything has to burn.”

I huff, frustrated, “I hate when you’re right.” 

Dean reverses the Impala and takes off, the engine revering. As predictable as possible the ghost truck roars after him. I try to rack my brain for more ideas, even if we could suddenly light a truck on fire it would take too long for it to burn completely, “Sam, please tell me you got some idea rolling around in there.” He doesn't answer, lost in concentration with his bottom lip between his teeth. 

My phone suddenly rings in my pocket, I pull it out swiftly seeing Dean’s name glowing. I flip it open bringing it to my ear, “You okay?” I say immediately. “Uh…yeah,” He says but I remain not convinced, “what are we doing?” 

I look at Sam, panicking slightly, “Um, Sam what are we doing?”

He pulls out his phone, “You gotta give me a minute.” He presses his phone to his ear, “He says to give him a minute, I think he’s callin’ someone.”

“I don’t have a minute!” He half yells. “Dude, I don't know!” I panic, “Just…just don’t die, okay?”

“Trying here sweetheart.” I look back at Sam who has stepped away, I give him a hand motion of ‘please hurry up.’ He nods, coming closer to feed me info, “Ask him where he is.” I pull my phone away from my ear putting him on speaker instead, “Okay, Dean where the hell are you?”

“In the middle of nowhere with a killer truck on my ass!” he exclaims, “It’s like it knows I put the torch to Cyrus.”

“Listen to me, this is important” Sam orders, calmly, “I have to know exactly where you are.” Seemingly taking his advice he goes quiet for a beat, “Decatur Road, about two miles off the highway.”

“Ok. Headed East?” Sam follows up.

“Yes!”

A rattle and a bang followed by skitting noise sounds from the phone followed by cursing, “You son of a bitch!” 

“Sam!” I yell, begging him to hurry up. “Ok, uhhh, turn right! Up ahead, turn right.” Again the line falls silent, “You make the turn?” Sam questions softly. My heart beats faster with each silent moment that passes. “Yeah, I made the turn!” Dean yells, “You need to move this thing along a little faster.”

“All right, you see a road up ahead?” Sam asks.

“No!... Wait. No, yes, I see it.”

“Ok turn left.”

“Wha..?” Dean half says before he goes quiet again the only sound coming from the line being more screeching and shuffled movement. “All right, now what? He finally responds. 

“You need to go seven-tenths of a mile and then stop,” Sam explains. I looked at him strangely, noticing he wasn’t on the phone anymore, but what the hell was he talking about? “Stop?” Dean voices.

“Exactly seven-tenths Dean” Sam repeats. 

“God, I hope you know what you’re talking about,” I tell the man beside me. “Me too” he mumbles over the sound of his brother repeating the words ‘seven-tenths.’ I look at him my mouth agape, “You wha–” 

“Dean, you still there?” He cuts me off, focusing on his brother again. “Yeah,” Dean responds.

“What’s happening over there?” I ask, not knowing was killing me. “It’s just staring at me,” he answers carefully, “what do I do?”

“Just what you’re doing, bringing it to you,” Sam replies.

“Wha–” Dean began before cutting himself off, the line going quiet for the umpteenth time, “Come on. Come on,” he mumbled quietly but just loud enough for the phone to pick it up. My heart thumps in my chest, anticipation and fear running through my veins as well as something else from those two stupid words–something had to be wrong with me to find that hot now of all times.

The line is silent, for one beat, then another, then another…I grip my phone tighter, “Dean? Dean, are you there? ‘You okay?”

“Where’d it go?” he responds with a mix of shock and confusion. “Dean, you’re where the church was,” Sam explains. “What church!” he freaks.

“The place Cyrus burned down. Murdered all those kids,” Sam clarifies. 

“There’s not a whole lot left,” Dean responds.

“Church ground is hallowed ground, whether the church is still there or not. Evil spirits cross over hallowed ground, and sometimes they’re destroyed, so I figured, maybe, that would get rid of it,” Sam explains. I hit his arm, “That was a hunch?!”

Dean adds in with the lecturing, “Maybe? Maybe!! What if you were wrong?!”

“Huh,” Sam hums, “Honestly, that thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

I glare at him sharply, hitting his arm again as I say, “You’re too sassy for your own good.” He laughs, a boyish grin on his face.

I wait in the back, Sam in the driver seat for Dean to say his goodbyes. I liked the back seat, more now than ever because being in the front would mean being able to see out the side mirror and watch Dean kiss the woman he loves and say a goodbye I was sure he didn’t want. 

Life was being really unfair and uncool.

I bury my nose in my new book, it would be better to just escape into this world than have to deal with my feelings here in the real world. My feelings in the real world were not fun, they were depressing and hurt…a lot. But no amount of ink on paper formed into beautifully crafted words could fill the gaping hole in my heart, still, I tried as there was nothing else to do.

What is worse is knowing there will never be a chance for me to be loved by him, at least not in the way I do, because there will always be a place in his heart for her. He’ll think of her all the time, dream about her, and perhaps see her in the breeze. His heart belongs to her, and possibly always has.

I needed to accept that. The sooner I did the quicker the pain would go away. I couldn't go on believing I had a chance I needed to huff the flame out now. 

No more hope. No more love. We’re friends, always have been, and always will be. That will have to be enough. I couldn’t love him anymore, not if it meant feeling this much pain. I wouldn’t accept his touches anymore for they gave me more hope than I’d like to admit.

No. I was wrong.

Worse of all is knowing that I can’t just stop loving him. Let it be the Gods' fault or the stars or whatever it is I’m meant to believe in but my heart has long been his and always will be. I could never love someone the way I love him, I wasn’t capable of that. Let it be that our love was written in the star's constellations that it was undecided by me or him for my love had to transcend the binds of that nonsense.

I loved him and he did not love me and maybe it was that which I had to accept because to stop loving him would mean to stop my heart from beating. Though even then I suspect not even the afterlife could keep me from my eternal love. And maybe that was pathetic or stupid, especially since he did not care for me in such a way, but it was the truth and no one has ever claimed truth to be a beautiful thing.

I’m brought back to reality with a bump. When did we leave and start driving? I look out the window, we had already made it to the highway…I look at the boys, but both seem fine. Ok then.

“I like her,” Sam says, and suddenly I wish to be lost back in the state I was in moments ago. I would love not to hear or be a part of this conversation. “Yeah,” Dean replies, seemingly just to get his brother to stop.

“You meet someone like her, doesn’t it make you wonder if it’s worth it? Putting everything else on hold, doing what we do?” Sam asks innocently perhaps trying to get him to understand what he had felt with his girlfriend. But something flickers in his face and suddenly he’s making eye contact with me in the rearview mirror, his eyes written in apology as if it just hit him now what all of this was doing to me. It was that puppy dog look. 

I smile sadly at him, giving him a curt nod in a silent ‘it’s okay.’ His gaze flickers back to the road.

Dean leans forward pulling sunglasses from the glove box, he puts them on carefully ignoring his brothers' initial question, “Why don’t you wake me up when it’s my turn to drive?” He slouches down in his seat with a sigh. I shake my head, roll my eyes, and go back to my book.

We were leaving Missouri and all would be well, or as well as they could be.

[luveline]

OK THE STEVE ZOMBIE AU BUT HE DOES FINALLY MIRACULOUSLY FIND ROBIN OR MAYBE DUSTIN OR LITERALLY ANYONE FAMILIAR. Our girl is happy but also like 👀 u finna ditch me now?

theres literally no zombies in this lmao </3 apocalypse au with new (but not really) boyfriend steve wherein you reunite with some old friends and find a community (and worry steve is gonna break up w u) fem!reader 7k words

The border between Indiana and Michigan is quiet. Nothing denotes its location besides a Welcome to Indiana sign. 

Steve's hand tightens around yours. You stand there for minutes, wind breezing past your tired bodies and ruffling his limp hair. 

"Do you think this is our last time seeing Indiana?" you ask quietly. 

There's no need to shout. The town surrounding the border is abandoned. 

He drops your hand. You miss his touch and the soothing effect it gives to hold it immediately. 

"Maybe," he says. "Does that bother you?" 

It fucking scares you. Staying there wasn't really an option anymore, not with the infestation of geeks dribbling away from Indianapolis or the lack of food. And besides that, you'd wanted to get to Michigan badly. Steve and his friend Robin had been planning to come here together before their untimely separation. Half of Hawkins had been aiming for Michigan after the news broke all those months ago — Illinois, Ohio, and Kentucky overrun by flesh-eating monsters. 

But if you leave Indiana, you're admitting it's a lost cause. That the lives you led there are gone, candles snuffed out by a sudden ripping gale. 

"I just…" You look over your shoulder at Michigan. "Can't believe we're here." 

"I think I'm glad we're here." 

You cock your head toward him. 

"Not just to find Robin," he clarifies. "But, no offence? Indiana was kicking your ass." 

You grimace at his implication. Indiana was kicking your ass. You've rolled your ankle more times than you can count. You'd fallen ten feet through the floor and given yourself a major concussion. You've been snarled at, robbed at knifepoint, and almost eaten. 

"Fucking Indiana," you say. 

"Fuck Indiana." He turns on his heel, but not before he's wrapped a hand around your arm to drag you with him. "Michigan better be nice to my girl, or we're going to Canada." 

You've already let him walk you a couple of feet when you have the bearings to splutter, "Your girl?" 

He ignores you, the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips. You’re pretty confident in being his girlfriend, but something about being ‘his girl’ makes your head rush.

You'd found a gun a little ways back but no ammunition for it. It's a good prop regardless, so Steve keeps it in hand stuffed into the pocket of his windbreaker ready to scare off anyone with enough wits to find guns scary. You're sitting ducks otherwise, armed with one small penknife and the metal baseball bat that Steve keeps in the strap of his rucksack, so you stick to the side roads. Being out in the open is risky. You're used to this mode of living, adept at slinking and skulking in dimly dark places. 

"Steve?" you ask, a murmur in the ringing quiet. Cicadas chirp in the trees, leaves rustling with each burst of wind. 

"Yeah?" he asks shortly, distracted by the door in front of him. 

He's attempting to pick the lock of a convenience store's sidedoor. You're standing guard.

"Where do you think Robin is?" 

He doesn't answer for a while. He works a delicate job, the slim pick in his hand creaking formidably with every wrong move. He's too forceful, and you're the better locksmith, but your wrist still twinges from your fall in the woods a few days ago. Steve's too protective for his own good. 

"I don't know. But she's smart, and-" He hisses, hair falling into his eyes. "I'm hoping she's still here." 

"If I were her, I'd wait for you." 

He tips his head back to meet your eyes. "If you ever stay somewhere dangerous waiting for me, I'll fist fight you." 

Usually you'd burst into laughter at his familiar abrupt absurdity — you've grown to adore his jokes now that you know there's no real malice behind them — but you want him to hear what you're saying. You want to know if he'd do the same. 

"I would," you say softly. 

The lock clicks open. 

Steve grins at you. "You won't need to. You're stuck with me like glue." 

Inside of the store is a sorry sight. While the shutters had been down, a good sign, the interior is much less promising. Sunshine filters in through the smallest cracks, casting a scarce light over what's left of the aisles. Two are crushed to one side as if a huge hand has swept them away. Smashed booze bottles litter the floor. Glass like snow crunches underfoot, and a sticky sour smell is heavy in the air. 

You ease into the room on pins. 

"There's gotta be something," Steve says, pulling his pocket-sized torch out to give you a better view. 

Where the shelves have collapsed, there's a small tunnel to the front of the room. You bend down to assess it. 

"I think there's cookies over there." 

"Where?" Steve demands. You point to aforementioned treats.

He army crawls through the gap and pops out on the other side. Those few seconds where you can't see him are unsettling, and from the speed with which he looks at you, he may have felt the same. 

"Keep an eye out," he says. 

You turn to the door. You've closed it tight but it won't lock without a key, and anyone might assume what you have and come inside. 

Steve hisses an excited, "Yes!" 

"How'm I s'posed to keep watch when you're doing that?" 

"Babe, there's fucking Chips Ahoy." He loves them.

"I'm sick of Chips Ahoy," you mumble to yourself. "I miss carrots. And potatoes. I miss pasta. Pasta." 

"Should I be jealous?" 

"Definitely. I'd trade you for a full, home-cooked meal any day, handsome. Fresh made pasta, sun dried tomatoes. Garlic bread." You could cry thinking about it, all those rich flavours together. 

"Call me crazy, but I think we could make you some pasta. Look-" He holds up a small jar. "Crushed garlic." 

You brighten. "Where'd you find that?" 

Garlic is a great flavour to make literally anything taste better, like all the canned stuff people don't always take: artichoke hearts, asparagus, aubergine. 

"Holy shit, score.” Steve holds another tin up, torch held between his chest and his upper arm. 

Your eyes turn round as saucers. 

That night, you decide to stay in the convenience store. You'll be cornered if somebody tries to get in, but you'll be safe from geeks and the elements. Two out of three isn't bad. 

You and Steve share the only fork, chowing down on his amazing find of tinned vegetable soup and dumplings. It barely registers in your head that it's cold, it's so nice to be eating something that isn't spaghettios. You could've built a fire outside to warm it if you weren't scared of being spotted by scroungers. Or worse, cannibals. 

"Maybe we should go outside. Look for smoke," you say. Smoke means people.

"Good idea.” He urges you to take what's left of the soup, stands, and kisses the top of your head as he does.

You're pretty sure there's bliss like the light of a star radiating off of your skin, elated at his easy affection. You're almost as happy to get to finish the soup. 

While he's gone, you open your bag and scrounge for what little self-care you have. Toothpaste is abundant in every store no matter how looted, as is soap, but soap needs water, and you're running low. You brush your teeth with toothpaste alone and use a little bit of water on a rag to wipe the oil off of your face, guilty and thankful at once. If you don't wash yourself when you can, you'll go crazy. 

You apply another layer of roll on old spice and hope it'll hold out until you can find another lake, river, or tributary, which shouldn't be impossible. Michigan is surrounded by water, a fact that had put you off coming here at first. 

You go where Steve goes, though, so Michigan it had been, and Michigan it is. 

Your first night’s already proved fruitful. There's more than enough food here if you're willing to get weird (and you and Steve usually are). More food than you could carry. 

Which is a little suspicious, now that you think about it. 

Nobody thought to look here? 

Is there anybody to look? 

You push all your stuff aside and scramble onto your knees, suddenly paranoid. Steve's taking too long, what if this place is a trap? A honeytrap to lure in mindless ants. What if they've already grabbed him, and– 

"Oh, Jesus," Steve says as he opens the door, voice uber loud in the night time stillness. "You scared me. What's the matter, need to pee?" 

"I thought somebody kidnapped you," you say, trying for joking and missing by a mile. 

Steve leans against the door. He's regained his controlled volume and demeanour, "Safe and sound. I'm serious, do you need to pee?" 

You and Steve pad out your corner of the store against the pilfered chip aisle. He lets you use his chest as a pillow, and when he turns off the torch there's nothing to do but listen to his breathing and feel his chest move under your ear. 

You rub his sternum with the heel of your hand. "You could use me as a pillow sometime. If you wanted to." 

"Yeah? You're softer than me, I think I'd love that." 

You draw a short line to his navel, thinking. Lucky to have found him. Lucky to like him this much, and lucky that he likes you. You're 'his girl', and you get to sleep on his chest and sometimes when he's not worrying himself to the bone he'll tell you secrets. You know him better than you’ve ever known anybody.

He curls his arm around your shoulder and takes your upper arm into his hand, the heat from his fingers seeping into your skin. You've taken off your coat because it's uncomfortable. Steve will fold it over your chest when you fall asleep. 

"It was a good day, right?" He sounds terrified of jinxing it. 

You kiss his chest, or his t-shirt, so lightly he likely doesn't feel it. A kiss for your sake rather than his. "It was a good day." 

He holds you close. His heart thrums in your head. 

"Floor's like a fucking ice cube," he mutters. 

You cover as much of him as you can with your arms, sleep tugging at your eyelids. "I'll keep you warm," you promise as they close. "Wake me up when you get too tired." 

"Alright." He massages your arm in his hand gently, and you fall asleep. 

—

Steve flinches awake at the whisper of a sound outside. A younger Steve, one who'd known nothing about geeks, or people, really, how awful they can be, wouldn't have woken. Hell, Steve could've slept through a hurricane when he was in high school, all those years where he'd stayed up too late playing hooky and smoking Malboro's behind the Big Buy. He looks back now and wonders how much sleep he missed out on in his king-sized mattress, up to his eyeballs in cushy sheets and fresh linens. Why had sleeping felt like such a chore? 

And after that, when he and Robin would stay up watching shitty movies and eating the free stale popcorn from the video store. Though he wouldn't trade any of that away. 

Fucking idiot, he thinks to himself scathingly. He was not supposed to fall asleep. He checks you over quickly. In your sleep you've slid off of his chest and onto the tarp next to him, but you’re unharmed.

He sits up and scrambles for his penknife. Weak dusk light breaks through the store's shutters, dust motes disturbed by his movements diving between rays of light like lightning bugs. His joints click with the force and speed with which he springs up to protect you. 

What sound was that? It had come as loud as a crack of thunder, but could've been something small, a squirrel over a tree branch. 

He should wake you up. If it's one person, even two, you could help him. But if it's more, and they find you… 

He shoulders open the door and walks out into the morning light. 

— 

You wake to hands on your shoulders. 

You're scared instantly. Steve usually wakes you reluctantly, a shake and a whispered, "Up," or, "Up, baby," if he's especially tired. 

"It's me," he says, his voice burning with something you haven't ever heard before. "It's me. Time to wake up." 

You peel your eyes open, horrified at the sight above you. Steve face hovers over your own with his hair tucked behind his ears and a blazing smile, daylight behind him haloing him in gold. 

"You didn't wake me." You bring clumsy hands to his rough cheeks. "Why didn't you wake me? You look so tired." 

He looks electrified, the bags under his eyes no match for his smile. You can feel it as he leans down, as he plants a kiss firmly to your unsuspecting mouth. He kisses you all over, a joyous chuckle bubbling out between them. 

You laugh yourself, tickled as his stubble scratches your cheeks, your neck as he works his way down. 

"There's- There's people," he says. "My people. Fucking Robin-" 

"What?" 

You're a half inch from headbutting him unconscious. Luckily he's already veering upward, stuffing what you'd left on the ground back into your packs. 

"I haven't seen her yet, but there's this other girl we went to school with, Darcy Mulligan, and she said this is an outpost, right? They keep all this shit here for people who need it, and then they watch to see if you're dangerous-" 

"They were watching us?" 

He plows onward, ignoring you, "And they saw us and I went out thinking they were gonna shoot me but-" 

"Steve, we can't go with these people." 

His smile fades a little. "No, we aren't. I told them already, we aren't that stupid. But," — he grabs your arm — "they said they're gonna bring Robin." 

You don't want to keep fighting him. To shoot down this newfound hope, this lightness you've never seen him shine with before, feels cruel. But you don't want him to get ahead of himself. 

"What if they're bringing back reinforcements?" 

He swallows and nods, reassuring your conjectures. "Right, I thought that too, but- I don't know, baby, Darcy was with a guy, and they both had guns. They could've shot me. 'N' if they were empty, the guy could've just knocked me over the head with it, you know?" He crawls impossibly closer than he'd been, hands rubbing your arm unthinking. "I think this is real." 

I want it to be real goes unsaid. 

You're ashamed that you can't find any excitement to wear with him. Dread licks over your skin as you smile at him, as you cup his cheek in your hand, and as you stand up to help him pack away his things. You feel like you're going to your death. 

Steve can read you well. He grabs your shoulders. You're selfishly hoping he'll say you can run. He doesn't. "You trust me?" he asks. 

You deflate, shoulders falling. "Of course I do." 

"Thank you." He tries to pull you in for a hug but you're reeling, distracted, he has to persuade you, and he does so sweetly. "Hey, c'mere, come on." He pulls at you. "Come here." 

You flop into his chest with all the grace of a shored fish, arms limp. He smells like sweat which probably means you do too, but he smells like himself, and that's what's important. 

"Nothing bad is going to happen to you." 

"What about you?" 

"If Robin's here, I have to take the risk. She's my best friend." 

You understand that. You'd never ask him not to do this, because you'd do it for him. If you'd ever gotten separated, you'd spend months looking for him. Years, maybe. He's the only person left. 

You have no clue if he'd do the same for you.

He scrubs at your back roughly. Such a boyish kind of hug. 

"You have your knife?" he asks. 

You have it. Rather than let them corner you in here, you both make your way out into the woods. Steve shows you the short path he'd taken to find Darcy Mulligan and the man she'd been with, evidence of their stakeout left in the embers of a small fire. You stand frozen with a tree trunk to your back and Steve stations himself in front of you, pack secured on your back. Steve has his baseball bat in hand. What good will it serve against a possible group of gunmen? You start to panic, really panic, and you're a hair's width from begging him to run with you when his grip on the bat falters. 

"Fuck," he says softly. 

Three people turn the corner; a dark haired girl with twin pigtails and a rifle hanging at her side; a boy, presumably the man Steve had mentioned; and a shorter girl with light brown hair, her expression — her entire body — lit with happiness, elation, and her laugh loud enough to prove it. 

"Holy shit," Steve says. 

You forget to be scared. You forget to worry. Steve lets the baseball bat drop out of his hand, and then he's taking three weak steps forward to meet her, and that's it, it's her, Robin throws her arms around his neck and nearly barrels him to the ground. His hands come up to meet her. He's shaking so hard you're surprised he can grip her waist, his face crushed to the side of her head. 

Tears well in your eyes. To get to see this, so soon, when you'd thought maybe Steve might never see his best friend ever again, is a blessing. It's a fucking miracle. 

Your tears bite back when the boy moves forward and hugs him too. 

You tighten your grip on your knife and pull it from your pocket, confused and alarmed that Steve's about to get gutted, but Steve starts to shake worse. 

It takes you a second to realise he's crying. 

"Henderson," he says. 

Oh. It's Dustin. You've heard enough stories about him to know it. He has the same curly hair, and while he's taller than you'd thought, Steve had only ever talked about one Henderson. 

Steve's relief is a knot in your throat. You wipe your cheek quickly with the back of your hand and shove the knife into your pocket. 

Over their heads, the dark haired girl narrows her eyes at you. 

"I can't believe you're here," Steve says, voice raspy with emotion. 

You have never heard him cry. 

"Where have you been, Steve?" Robin asks hoarsely. 

You take a step toward him without thinking, and he hears it despite everything and looks up at you with a teary-eyed smile. 

"We got lost," he says, holding your gaze. 

"Lost? It's been months. We thought you were zombie mulch, you shithead." 

"I'm here, aren't I?" He rolls his eyes at you, like he's saying Get a load of this guy? 

It's a reassuring gesture even if he doesn't mean for it to be. You're still a team. 

"Hi," Robin says, her hands clasped in Steve's shirt, but her attention fully yours. "I'm Robin." 

You don't have a chance to introduce yourself. Steve does it for you, and he says, "She's my girl. Saved me this entire time." 

What the fuck does that mean?

Robin looks at you again. "No fucking way." 

"Only took an apocalypse for Steve to get a girlfriend," Dustin says. 

There's something about their playful arguing that makes you want to cry again. It's the relief they've padded it with. You can imagine how brilliant it must feel to make fun of somebody you'd thought long dead. 

"Don't worry, Y/N," Robin says gravely, "there are tons of dudes at camp. You have options." 

Steve steps on her foot. 

"We should head back," Darcy says shortly. 

On the walk, Steve feels very far away. He keeps looking at you to check you're there, but his thoughts are months ago, recounting the details of your survival to his friends in short. You and Steve had been together since basically the very start when you'd saved him from a horde, and he tells that with pride. So much so you feel heat blooming behind your neck and at the tips of your ears. 

"We fucking floored to to the meeting point but you guys weren't there-" 

"Sorry-" 

"No, it's okay," he says. "I get it. It was rough." All of you shiver at the memory. Hawkins had been hit hard, a close knit town with nowhere to hide.

"No we- we should’ve fucking waited- I begged them to wait," Robin says. 

"Who did you get out with?" 

And there's the list of survivors. It's short. The amount of orphaned kids is extremely depressing, and for a while there's silence. All those people. Dustin's mom, Robin's dad. 

"Hopper's here, though," Dustin adds after a while.

"That explains why you're still alive." 

"Actually, dickhead, we're alive because I'm awesome. The radio-" 

"How many people are there?" Steve interrupts. 

"It's a whole new world, Harrington." 

It's better. 

You turn onto what looks like an old college campus and suddenly, there's people. So many people you walk backward and almost tumblr off of the curb, because fuck. There's noise, and smells, and sounds. There are little kids running around in a closed off area of the quad, laughing and chasing after one another. There are guns on guards patrolling makeshift walls. 

Your ears start ringing. 

"Think your girlfriend's gonna pass out," Darcy says. 

You're the last one to figure out she's talking about you. 

"Oh, hey. Hey," Steve says, stepping toward you. 

You take another step back. 

"Baby," he says softly. 

"There's people here." 

"So many new boyfriend's to choose from," he jokes. He's tentative, but he offers his hand like he knows you'll take it. "Come on. I promise I won't get jealous when you run off with somebody cooler." 

"I don't want somebody cooler," you say. 

"Okay, awesome, 'cause I was lying. I'd be super jealous. I'd feed myself to the geeks." 

"Don't say that." 

He grins at you, hand hovering in the gap between your bodies unwavering. Trust me, it says. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. 

You take Steve's hand. 

—

The world is more than you and Steve against it. There are people to answer to. 

Chief Hopper actually recognises you when he sees you. He recognises Steve first, and he gives him a pat on the back. You aren't expecting any hellos, figuring you're barely a memory to him, but Hopper smiles at you like you've just told him you have the antidote for zombification in your rucksack. 

"It's good to see you, kid."

That night, in the dining hall, you get a small welcome between shift announcements. Hundreds of heads turn your way, and while some house cagey unsurety, the majority are happy to see you. 

You sit with Steve and his friends (plural, a growing number, because nearly all of them are here), torn between stopping him from crying his eyes out with happy tears and listening to the older woman sitting beside you. Her name is Mallory, and she offers a generous gift. 

"You have any questions at all, sweetpea, and you can come to me. Or if you just wanna talk, my shoulder's right here." She pats it for emphasis. 

"Thank you so much." But, you want to say, I have Steve.

"Young love, and in a time like this." Mallory's smile is genuine, if a little haunted. "It's amazing." 

You indulge her, turning from Steve just slightly. "But?" 

She brushes a strand of hair behind her ears. It's three colours, a faded red at the middle, a mix of grey and brown at the top. "Listen, I have some unsolicited advice for you hon, but I'm not trying to offend you when you just got here." 

You shake your head. "No," you say hurriedly, "of course not. I wouldn't think that." 

She digs around in her pocket and opens her hand covertly under the table. When you look at it, she hisses. "No, don't. Keep your eyes up." 

You right your gaze accordingly. The canteen is simply that — the college's canteen. Every night there's something cooking, and every morning if they can afford it. Although you'd been told some people eat at home, most people come here, because this is the only place with a reliable generator. From where you're sitting, you can see everybody, and you suspect Steve had chosen this vantage point on purpose. 

Hopper stands at the front of the room behind another man, who's moved from the important stuff and is now lamenting at the book club's low attendance. They have a fucking book club. You can't believe it. 

Mallory drops something into your hand. A hard-boiled candy.

"My advice," she says, the two of you watching as Hopper and the second man confer, "is to try and be in both worlds at once." 

"You've lost me." 

"That's not a good sign, I've barely started," she jokes, laughing so much that the men sitting across from you laugh too. She carries on, "What I mean is, this isn't home. It probably never will be. We fight so hard to make it home, we plant trees, 'n' we sleep warm every night, but…" She squeezes your shoulder amicably, a light, quick touch. "I know how it felt when I got here. Me and my husband, we kept to ourselves. And we were right to, not everybody here can be good. But when he died, I had nobody." 

You let your eyes drop to you plate, a small portion of a soup that's not the best and a sandwich that's marginally better. You get what Mallory's trying to say — don't put your eggs all in one basket, not when the basket might get mauled to death any day coming. 

You get what she's trying to say. You don't appreciate it. 

"Thank you," you say weakly. 

She nods, and Steve saves you from anymore conversation with an arm hooked through yours. 

“You okay?” he asks. Unmistakably fond. 

You can feel the eyes of all of his friends. All these people you knew too, or knew of, and should be happy to see. You should be so fucking happy right now. 

So why aren’t you?

You turn your face to his and take him in. He’s got a red rash of skin over the top of his head from prolonged sunburn and a scar under his left eye from a cruel tree branch. He looks different than the Steve you’d met at school, and he looks different still from the Steve you’d saved on day 1. 

But he’s your Steve. 

You drop your forehead into his neck, love like a warm blanket encapsulating you when he presses a kiss against your forehead. 

“I know,” he says, moving back, forcing you to sit up again. “It’s crazy.”

You return his smile, though you aren’t sure you're on the same page. 

—

Little Hawkins makes you want to curl up into a ball and cry. It’s a floor of rooms in the campus dormitories, and Robin shares with a couple of other people your age. She only has a mattress and her things on the ground in one room, but soon Steve and another guy are dragging another mattress from across campus while you watch. 

"No offence," Steve says, "but I'm trying to spoil you right now. Can you stop pouting? I'm giving you a breather." 

"I don't believe you." 

He and the unnamed man lean the mattress up outside of Robin's door. 

"Well," he says warmly, and you're starting to feel lovesick with how sweet he's being, nearly enough to forget how scared you are, "maybe you should try." 

Steve is nice. He's always been nice, ever since you met him, even if that nice was strapped down and buried under one layer of derision, one layer of sarcasm, and another layer of sternness for prosperity. But this is another level. Ever since he woke you up he's been ridiculous (he's been the kind of affectionate you've secretly ached for). Steve's sparing with affection but you wouldn't ever complain — can you expect him to play doting boyfriend when each day he's hardwired and on the fritz trying to make sure you both don't die agonising, gross deaths? 

This is fucking crazy, though. 

Steve pulls you bodily by the waist into his front and talks into the highest point of your cheek, words muffled by your skin, "When was the last time we slept on a mattress? Gotta be months ago," — you lean into him entirely, he takes your weight with zero qualms — "when we were in that house by the lake with all the soaps." 

"So many soaps," you murmur, melted by his closeness. 

He laughs. He giggles, all boyish and pretty and you can't help yourself, you lift your chin, practically begging for a kiss. 

You get a short one. Steve's too busy laughing. "And the canned pickles. I know they were, like, doomsdayers, but what did we count, like-" 

"Fifty seven-" 

"Fifty seven jars of pickles," he finishes. 

If this is what Steve is like here, you can make the trade. You don't trust anybody that isn't him, and it feels like you're surrounded by people who could easily hurt you, but his easy joy right now is contagious. 

Robin's voice comes loud from inside her room. "Hey, lovebirds! Are you coming in? They turn all the lights off in like, twenty minutes." 

It's obvious how much Steve trusts Robin. You get the mattress in her room through a series of squeezing and hoping, and she shows you her fancy little sink with running water, nothing short of pride in her eyes. 

"It's freezing," she says, "but you can wash up." 

It genuinely doesn't bother you that it's cold, emotionally. Physically you get the jitters, and it's worth it because Steve pities you and wraps you up tight to rub your arms. He and Robin talk a lot, so much that your brain has given up on listening. It's not something you're happy to hear anyhow, your perilous journey. Steve is generous on your account, leaving out all your most embarrassing moments. 

You sit on the end of the mattress and wonder if you can take your shoes off. 

"Robin?" you ask. 

Both turn to look at you, surprised. 

"Yeah?" 

"Does the door lock?"

She brings her legs up to her chest, chin on her knees. "There's no deadbolt, but you need a key to open it from the outside. So kind of?" She watches you for a moment, and then she nods towards the desk covered in books. "I used to put the chair under the handle when I first got here. You can do that, if you're worried." 

You nod uselessly and get up to do just that. 

"Thanks, Robs," Steve says. 

"Yep." She flops into a ball on her side and pulls the blankets up and over her face. "Goodnight, then." 

Steve laughs and steps over your legs so he can get to her. "Robin," he says, pulling the blankets down. "I- I really missed you." 

She holds out her arms and they hug. She pats his back. "Missed being a pain in my neck, maybe," she mutters. He pushes away from her in mock disgusts and they smile, a shared smile that douses you in an unfair jealousy. You shrug it off pretty quickly when he sits down on the mattress beside you, looking content and, shockingly, really tired. 

He encourages you up to the top of the mattress beside him and folds up the blanket from the rucksack for you as a pillow, sliding it under your head. When he seems confident that you're comfortable he blows out the candle burning on Robin's desk. 

This part's easy, you and Steve in the dark. You're practised in the art of moving around one another. 

Your heart pounds in your ears as Steve pulls a heavy blanket over the both of you, his arm strewn across your stomach haphazardly. 

"Are you okay?" he whispers. 

You turn your face to his though you can't see it. "Of course I am. Are you okay?" 

"I know this is weird." 

Weird doesn't feel like the right word. Surreal, maybe. Something out of a dream. 

"I think my back aches more on the mattress, I'm so used to twisting myself into knots between your legs." 

He snorts. "That doesn't sound right." 

You cover his arm with your hand. "Pig." 

"You can lie on my chest, if you want." 

"Think it's your turn to use me as cushioning." Your voice is coloured by your smile. 

He exhales into your shoulder. 

"Mm. This is nice," he murmurs. 

"You want me to take the first shift?" 

"I don't think we need shifts." 

You can't agree. Steve trusts Robin and you trust Steve, but you do not trust Robin. She seems lovely, and through Steve's stories you know she's a good person, but he hasn't seen her in a year. She could be anybody, and she's locked into a room with you.

You don't mean to be deceitful. "Alright," you utter, "no shifts." 

"You smell nice," Steve says. His lips move against your skin, and he lifts his head enough to kiss your jaw, three kisses in succession. "Goodnight, honey." 

You raise your hand to his head. "Goodnight." 

He falls asleep to you carding through his hair. Even when you're sure he's dead to the world you keep going, the feeling of it between your fingers calming. 

You don't sleep a wink. 

—

It becomes a mantra. Steve is happy here. Over and over and over. 

You're happy too by consequence; Steve is a new person, still the man you know but with this emanating happiness rolling off of him in waves. 

Chief Hopper has promised to get you and Steve a place together if you want one. This had scared you half to death, because you want one bad, but you'd been expecting a little resistance from Steve (or, admittedly, a lot). Because… 

You're starting to think maybe you aren't scared of the people here. You trust Hopper to run a community that's safe if he says it is, and as the days stretch into a week, two weeks, you start to feel secure. Steve's never far, but that's the terrifying part. 

You're worried Steve is going to leave you. 

It sounds dramatic. It is dramatic. But you're scared shirtless that Steve is going to wake up and realise he doesn't owe you a thing, that he doesn't harbour the affection for you that he thinks he does. You're worried that Steve had gone soft on you because you'd been there, like a habit. 

Your feelings for him only grow, despite this. He's fucking handsome when he's clean-shaven, clean in general. Somebody's mom gives him a haircut and you can't believe it, because he's always been good looking but you can tell he's more confident like this, and the confidence makes him golden. 

He's also super handsy. 

You love it, and you get it. You know you look prettier clean, even more so after somebody's mom gives you a haircut and you've managed to scrub the perma-dirt from under your nails. The want to kiss him is dialled up by a thousand because you always have clean teeth.  

The nagging fear remains even when he's got a mouthful of your neck. 

"Ouch," you moan, hands in his hair, legs spread enough to accommodate his figure between them, "s'like a geek, nibbling on me." 

Steve bites a little harder. 

You gasp at his show of force and push your head away from him. "Steve," you say with a laugh.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologises, pulling back. Elbows at your ribs, he holds his weight off of you though there's no reason to. "My teeth missed you." 

"What the fuck." 

"All of me missed you." He strokes the side of your face mildly. "I hate this." 

You wiggle under him, mattress springs digging into your back. He doesn't bother explaining what he'd meant, only leans down to kiss your cheek, your chin, the tip of your nose. 

You stare at him. 

"What do you hate?" 

He scrunches his nose up like it's obvious, and you're stupid for not knowing. "Us being on separate schedules. It's fucking shitty." 

You don't have an answer for him. It seems more than lucky that he would assuage your worst feelings considering you haven't told him anything at all. You haven't told him about staying up at night to make sure Robin's not gonna kill him, or how worried you are that he's gonna realise he can leave you now you're safe, now you don't owe each other anything. You haven't told him how much you love him, and how much that would hurt. 

Somehow, you get the impression that he knows anyway. 

"This is really nice," you say eventually. 

He rests his face against yours. You close your eyes. 

"What's nice?" he asks. "Our separation? You're sick, babe. I'm trying to bare my heart here and you're stomping all over it." 

"Not our separation, dummy. This. You lying on top of me. It feels really nice." 

His small laugh warms your cheek. "I know. Why'd you think I let you climb all over me for months?" 

"'Cause otherwise we'd freeze to death?" 

He kisses a line down to the skin under your ear. "That, too. But mostly because it feels good." 

You wrap your arms around him and press your nose to his hair, smelling him for your own self-indulgence. He lets his weight press down on you, shifting his arm so they're digging behind your shoulders. 

You hook a leg behind his. 

"Steve, I…" 

"I love you." 

You stiffen. 

He hugs you that tiny bit tighter. "I love you," he says again. "I should've told you before, but I- I was so afraid that you'd-" He clears his throat quietly. "I was fucking terrified that I was going to let you down. You kept almost dying on me, and I kept realising I wouldn't be able to do this without you." 

"I love you too," you say, shell-shocked. 

He kisses your cheek slowly, softly, and then he lifts himself up so you're face to face. 

"I love you," you say, because he'd said it twice. 

His smile is gentle, eyes creased with a loving amusement. "I know." Steve steals back one of his arms so he can thumb under your eye. "I know you're not sleeping." 

"Steve-" 

"No, listen. I know you don't trust Robin-" 

"I do-" 

"You don't, and it's okay." He cups your cheek. "It's okay. You know, Hopper said it wouldn’t take long to find us a room. A couple more days and you won’t have to worry. And you know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know,” you say, voice softening to match his own. 

He squeezes your cheek. “There’s a lot of stuff I should say to you and I’m kind of trying to hang onto my last shred of dignity here, but I mean it. More than I’ve ever- More than anyone. I love you.”

Your lips fall into a self-pitying pout. You won’t cry, though you feel like you could, because this is possibly the happiest you’ve ever been in your life. Steve loves you more than anyone, plain as day. He wouldn’t say that if he were going to swap you out for a new apocalypse girlfriend anytime soon, ‘cause Steve doesn’t mess with feelings. He’s earnest. 

“Ever since we got here, I’ve been waiting for you to break up with me,” you say. 

Which is funny in itself. You and Steve kissed each other every now and then for weeks before you had the conversation — it feels juvenile to think of boyfriends and girlfriends in life or death, and, paradoxically, it feels really important. The label means a lot to you. The ‘I love you’ means the world, even if he’s been showing it everyday since he met you. 

He makes a sound that’s a combination of a scoff, a snort, and a pitying sigh. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. 

You laugh so loudly it surprises you both. “I’m ridiculous? Get off of me, rich boy.”

Steve hunkers down. “What? No way. I live here now.”

“Seriously, Harrington, get off. I'm sick of you. Robin promised she’d find me a new boyfriend. Maybe I’ll get one with compassion.”

He laughs. He’s trying not to, and it comes out warm and soft to spite him. “Fine, let’s break up.”

“Fine.”

He tilts his head toward yours until your foreheads are touching, staring into your eyes. It takes a lot of willpower to hold in your laugh. “Wanna go on a date with me?”

You lift your chin and kiss him through giggles. “Yeah, okay. Options are pretty limited here, anyway.”

[sunkissed-zegras]

✮ 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞, 𝐢 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | prologue jump then fall au

au masterlist! masterlist!

♡ ─ word count | 1.7k

♡ ─ summary | adam was resisting the idea of hiring a nanny despite luca's insistence that paloma needed one. they met with a potential nanny who had good credentials and reviews. they decided that cece may be the right person to care for paloma, even if it would take time for adam to fully trust her.

♡ ─ warnings | mention of a troubled past, the hard time opening up, nothing else really!

♡ ─ taglist | TBD! let me know if you want to be in the JUMP THEN FALL AU!

♡ ─ ev's notes | oh my gosh, i haven't been this excited for an AU in a while. i have been so de-motivated for so long and i'm so happy that i'm finally back on my grind LMAO!! but on another note, thank you v @drysdalesv for helping me with this au, i love you and you're so amazing and creative HEHHEHEH. anyway, enjoy!!!

"Adam, come on." Luca sighed as he leaned his head back in annoyance. "She's two, she can't survive on her own and you can't take her to every practice, or game."

Adam sat on the couch of his brand-new apartment as he listened to his brother trying to convince him to get him a nanny. He's been trying ever since the move and he understood why but he wasn't sure he was ready. "People are weird these days, Luca, I'm not gonna just hire someone off the street-"

"Adam, there are websites, background checks and so much more. You're not gonna hire some random person to take of her, I get it, but what do you expect?"

Adam, torn between his protective instincts and the practicality of the situation, sighed. "I know, Luca, I just… I've never been comfortable with the idea of strangers around Paloma. She's my everything."

Luca leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "Look, I get it, man. But we can't do this alone. You've got a career to focus on, and I've got my own life to manage, I can't be driving up here everyday and mom and dad have their work. We both love her, but we can't be with her 24/7."

Adam ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. He knew Luca was right, Paloma was his top priority, and his hockey career demanded a lot of his time. It was his dream but he had to make sacrifices sometimes.

"I know, I know. It's just… What if something happens? What if the nanny isn't right for her?" He's heard the stories of those crazy nannies who abuse their power and doesn't even know what he'd do if anything like that happened to Paloma.

Luca put a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder. "We'll find someone who's perfect for her, someone we can trust. And we'll be there to oversee everything. Paloma deserves a chance to socialize, learn, and grow."

Adam nodded, the corners of his lips lifting slightly as he scoffed playfully. "You always know how to talk me into things, Luca."

Luca grinned happily. "That's what brothers are for, right?"

Adam glanced at his draft photo on the wall, picture of him holding Paloma in his arms, both of them wearing matching smiles on the second best day of his life. It was a simple reminder that Paloma's happiness and well-being were his top priorities. And the more he thought about it he realized that maybe, just maybe, he could find someone who would fit perfectly into their little family.

"Alright, Luca. Let's start looking for a nanny."

──

The air was warm and the scent of flowers filled the outside area of the Cafe Adam had chosen to meet with the new nanny one of his new teammates had told him about. She was around his age, maybe a bit younger, and was currently a student at Ohio State. She seemed like an ideal fit, with a schedule that matched Adam's needs—available Monday through Saturday from 9 am to 2 pm, perfect for morning practices. She also had many positive reviews from previous employers.

Seated outside, Luca observed his brother, who repeatedly checked his phone. Luca couldn't help but let out a soft sigh. "What?"

"She's late," Adam replied, his anxiety evident. He was usually laid back but right now, Luca could tell he was nervous.

"Since when do you care about punctuality? And it's rush hour, she's probably stuck in traffic." Luca replied as he tried to calm the boy down. She was the fifth nanny they'd met with in the span of a few weeks and he still hasn't found a match. Practice was going to start next week and this girl just had to be the right fit or he wouldn't know what else to do.

Adam tried to calm his nerves, playing with his keychain to try and calm his nerves. "Yeah, you're probably right. I just want this to work out, you know? Paloma deserves the best."

With an encouraging smile, Luca affirmed, "And she'll get it, Adam. We'll find the perfect fit for her, someone who'll love her like we do."

Adam nodded, appreciating his brother's reassuring words. He knew Luca was right; they would eventually find the perfect caregiver for Paloma, someone who would care for her as if she were their own.

Just as Adam was about to voice his concerns about the potential nanny's tardiness again, the cafe's entrance door chimed, and a young woman stepped inside. She scanned the outdoor seating area, her gaze locking onto the table where Adam and Luca sat. With a friendly smile, she approached them, her demeanor friendly and sweet.

She was pretty; that was the first thing Adam thought as he looked at her. She had a backpack on and it was obvious she had just come from a lecture, she looked the tiniest bit of tired but Adam thought that made her somewhat more attractive.

"Adam, Luca?" she inquired, her voice warm and welcoming. "I'm so sorry for being a little late, I got stuck in traffic on the way here."

Adam couldn't deny that Cece had a certain charm about her, and he appreciated her honesty. "No worries, Cece," he replied, offering her a warm smile. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Adam, and this is my brother, Luca."

Luca also greeted her with a friendly nod and smile. "Good to meet you, Cece."

Cece settled into the chair across from them, her backpack placed beside her. She seemed at ease, and her friendly demeanor put Adam's initial concerns to rest. It was important that the person they chose to care for Paloma was not only qualified but also someone she could feel comfortable around. The fact that Cece had come straight from a lecture also signaled to Adam that she was hardworking, which he appreciated.

"So, you go to Ohio State?" Luca mumbled playfully as he looked down at his Michigan sweatshirt. Cece let out a soft laugh at that and nodded.

"Yup, buckeye through and through." Cece faked a southern accent which made them both let out a soft chuckle, "Well not really. My entire family has went to Michigan, I'm the first to break the tradition."

As the conversation flowed, Adam couldn't help but steer it towards the topic that mattered most to him—Paloma. He had to know if Cece could connect with his daughter. With a warm smile, he began, "So, Cece, have you worked with toddlers before?"

Cece nodded, "Yeah I have. I worked with a toddler last year but they moved. I also have a little brother and some nieces and nephews.” A smile engulfed her face as she mentioned her family and Adam couldn’t help but be drawn to her genuine warmth. 

"That's wonderful," Adam replied, his own smile growing. "Family means everything to us, and Paloma is like our little princess." 

Luca chimed in, "She's a sweet kid, but she's been through a lot. We want to make sure she's comfortable with whoever takes care of her." Adam couldn’t help but stiffen at the mention of their hardships. He looked down at the table.

Cece sensed the change in the atmosphere as soon as Luca mentioned Paloma's hardships. She couldn’t help but wonder exactly what those were but she wasn’t going to ask anytime soon, it was obvious the wound was still fresh.

"I understand," she said softly, her voice filled with empathy. "Paloma's comfort and happiness will be my top priorities. I'll do my best to create a safe and loving environment for her, so she can heal and thrive."

Adam, still struggling with the memories of the past year, nodded slowly. It was difficult for him to open up about their challenging journey and even Luca still didn’t know the entire story with him and his ex. 

Luca placed a reassuring hand on Adam's shoulder, silently letting him know that they were in this together, and that Cece might just be the right person to help them move forward as a family. 

Adam leaned forward, "That's what we want, someone who can give her love and security. She's the most important thing in my life." Cece could tell how much Adam loves Paloma and she admired that. Her gaze softened as he spoke, it was so heartwarming seeing a father so involved with his daughter. 

Cece met Adam's gaze with sincerity. "I promise you, Adam, Luca, I'll put my heart into making sure Paloma feels loved and safe."

In that moment, as they discussed their shared commitment to Paloma's well-being, Adam felt a sense of hope he hadn't felt in a long time. Cece's warm and genuine personality made him believe that they might have found the perfect person to care for his daughter. Sure, it’d take a while for her to fully gain his trust, (if ever), but he had hope for them.

As their conversation came to a close, Cece, still smiling warmly, glanced at her phone. "I hate to cut it short, but I have to head to my next class soon. Is there anything else you'd like to ask or talk about before I have to leave?"

Adam exchanged a quick look with Luca, silently before nodding. With a smile, he replied, "No, Cece, I think we're good. Thank you for coming to meet with us, and for your willingness to be a part of Paloma's life."

Cece's smile widened, and she stood up, picking up her backpack. "It was my pleasure, Adam. I'm really looking forward to getting to know her better.”

As Cece left the cafe, Luca turned to Adam with a grin. "I think we found our nanny, Adam."

Adam chuckled, a weight lifted off his shoulders. "Yeah, I think so too. She’s good.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say? She’s perfect, Adam.” He chuckled as he picked up the water and took a sip. “And she’s just your type.”

Adam rolled his eyes and groaned at Luca’s insinuation as he laughed. He wasn’t wrong, she is exactly his type and not just on paper, she was sweet and caring and- Adam stopped himself before he got too ahead of himself. “Remember what we both said not even two weeks ago?”

“No girls,” they said in unison and Luca let out a dramatic sigh. They had to focus on family and hockey, their main priorities before getting into any serious relationships. It was mostly Adam, though - after what happened with his ex he felt as if he couldn’t even think about relationships. Hockey and his family, more importantly Paloma, were his top priorities and love was simply a distraction. Right now, at least.  

-> make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated! <-

thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[sapphic-coded]

I Swear That I Don't Have A Gun

You grew up in Ohio with your father, brother, and sister. Your family was small and strange. Because of that, you were picked on relentlessly at school. Until another weird kid showed up. Her family moved in across the street from you. It wasn't long until the two of you became friends. Your friendship became the light in your life. Until it ended suddenly. Rumors followed your friend's disappearance. Russian spies. You didn't see her again until you crossed paths at work.

Series Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x fem Reader

Warnings: Imaginary violence. Reader is a messed up assassin and doesn't like recon jobs. Expensive alcohol. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 4.3k

Author's Note: I'm back from vacation and I caught covid. I wrote this whole chapter while I was stuck in quarantine so I apologize if anything doesn't make sense. Thank you again for the endless love you have shown this series. It's really fun to write and I'm glad you guys enjoy reading it.

Taglist: @natsxwife @iliketozoneout @newawakening9 @natasha-1million @ilovemcuff @beholdagaywriter

Chapter Four: Between Fact And Fiction, Which One Of Us Changed?

Mount Vernon, Ohio – 1992

The bark was rough against your hands as your foot found purchase against a sturdy gnarl. You reached for the thick branch above and dug your fingers into the familiar wood. It took hardly a minute to pull yourself up onto the branch. Your movement was fluid. Practiced. You have climbed this tree more times than you can count. You settled onto the thick branch, and it held your weight with ease. The branch you sat on was nearly as high as the roof of your house. It afforded you the best view of your small neighborhood. 

You looked down and found Nat confidently scaling up the tree. The moment she was close enough, you leaned down and offered your hand. Her hand wrapped around yours and you helped pull her up onto the branch with you. Your legs swung lazily as she sat down next to you. The sun had already begun its descent towards the treeline, and you felt nothing but raw excitement for the approaching weekend. Your father was wrapped up in communications with his past self and had made it clear that he was not to be bothered. Which left a whole weekend free to do whatever you wanted. No hunting trips. No extracurricular activities. Just two whole days of sweet freedom. 

Nat swung her backpack around, pulled out something, and then leaned her bag against the trunk of the tree. She held out something in a long, thin shiny packaging towards you. Your eyes widened, and your smile grew at what was unmistakably a delicious fruit roll-up. You took it and immediately tore open the wrapper. You ripped off a bite with your teeth and chewed on the sweet snack happily. 

“Your parents are way cooler than my father,” you said before you ripped off another bite with your teeth. 

Nat smiled and shook her head as she opened up the wrapper. “My mom says this stuff will rot your teeth. Ashley had a bunch of these with her at school today. I traded a yoo-hoo for these.”

You didn’t know who Ashley was. Her face in your mind was a blend of every other face you passed in the hallways. 

“You said your Dad had company?” Nat asked as she ripped off a piece of her fruit roll-up. 

You followed her gaze to your driveway that was largely empty except for your father’s station wagon. “He does. It’s one of his past selves. He doesn’t know when. They keep changing their story.” As you took another bite, the front door of your house opened and your brother and sister walked out. Your brother was dressed in one of his nicer black suits while your sister wore a black slip dress over a brown and black striped T-shirt. As they made their way down the driveway, another car turned onto the street and pulled up in front of your house. You didn’t recognize any of the other teens in the car, but they all looked to be either around your brother’s age or older. 

You chewed on your snack as you watched your siblings climb into the car and drive off. You had no idea if your brother ever worked up the courage to ask Sadie to the dance. Ever since you met Nat, most of your free time has been spent hanging out with your friend. Not that your siblings seemed to mind. In fact, they both seemed to like Nat when they crossed paths with you two the other day. 

“My Dad wants to pull out our grill one last time for the season,” Nat said as she ripped off another piece of her fruit roll-up. “You should come by tomorrow. My parents want to meet you.” 

You looked over at Nat. You knew exactly what your father would say if you asked him if you could go. He wouldn’t just say no. He’d find a way to make sure that such an opportunity would never come your way again. He tolerated your newfound friendship with Nat because it made you look normal. It kept up appearances. But going any deeper than that could turn a stroke of luck into a potential problem. 

You knew all of this, yet you didn’t feel fear as you settled on your answer. Your father would find out. It was pointless to hide anything from him. But whatever punishment he would dish out felt shallow. Your thoughts were anchored on Nat, and how nice it felt to be around her. She offered no judgment whenever you mentioned your family. She could have left you once the other kids told her how weird you were. But she stayed by your side. 

So you said, “Okay.” And all you could think about was spending your free weekend with your friend.

Stockholm – 2010

As the car pulls to a stop, your father hands you a folded piece of pale, yellow scrap paper. 

“Call your brother,” he says as you unfold the piece of paper. Scratched in quick strokes of black ink is a phone number. “He wants to talk to you.” 

You fold the piece of scrap paper in half and look over at your father. He is dressed in a black tuxedo suit with matching polished black shoes. His black hair is combed back from his face and in the dim light of the car, it is nearly impossible to see the faint white streaks peppered throughout. The smell of his cologne hangs heavy between you two. 

“Why?” you ask. 

“He did not wish to discuss his reasoning with me,” your father replies. “He insisted on talking with you.”

You shrug and sit back in the cushioned leather seat. “Then I’ll call him later.”

“No,” your father’s reply is calculated and sharp. You imagine him standing above you and barking orders in that same tone of voice. Go. Fight. Run. Kill. “You will call him now. This is a very important night. We cannot afford another mistake like Amsterdam.”

You roll your eyes. “When will you stop with that? I did the job.” 

“I will stop when you stop distracting yourself with that spy,” your father snaps. 

You shift around in your seat so you can face your father fully. “First, you have no proof that she was ever a Russian spy.”

“I have mountains of evidence, Y/N,” your father is quick to argue. “You just won’t listen.”

“Second,” you continue as if your father didn’t say anything, “she is not a distraction. Every job you have given me since Amsterdam I have completed. Even the ones that draw her out.”

Your father shifts around in his seat to face you fully as well. He points his finger at you. “That is it. Right there. You have just admitted it. You are drawing her out.” 

“I am not.”

“She is a distraction,” your father presses. “What do you think will happen once she has you right where she wants you?”

You laugh and roll your eyes again. “It’s not like that. We are just talking.” 

“She is your enemy, Y/N.” 

You shift back into your seat and stare ahead at the tinted window partition that separates the front of the car from the back. You fold your arms in front of your chest as you bite back the same old retort. It has been a little over a month since Amsterdam, and just about three weeks since London. You’ve done three more jobs since, and she hasn’t shown up at a single one. The disappointment you’ve been carrying around is crushing. You thought she was starting to get close. You thought she had finally picked up your trail. But you were wrong, and you hated the growing silence between the two of you. 

You hear your father shift back into his seat next to you. You don’t know how else to explain to your father that your conversations with her are not distractions. You have argued your point so many times, but he doesn’t listen. But if the past three jobs were anything to go by, he won’t have to worry about her for much longer. If she lost your trail, then only luck would put her back in front of you. You can feel your frustration beginning to resurface. There was still so much left unsaid. You were hoping for at least one more conversation. 

“Call your brother so we can carry on with our night,” your father says. 

You unbuckle your seatbelt and open the car door. You step out onto a quiet sidewalk lit by the white glow of the streetlamp. The black Lexus you and your father have been riding in idles as you shut the door behind you. You make your way over to the payphone and dial the number written on the piece of scrap paper. As you wait for an answer, your hand dips into the pocket of your navy blue suit jacket. Your father had instructed you to dress up for tonight, so you had selected one of your favorite suits. Your suit jacket remains unbuttoned and reveals the white satin blouse beneath that scoops down towards your breasts. Your matching navy blue trousers run down the lengths of your legs and end at your black oxford shoes. 

“Hello?” your brother’s voice speaks through the receiver. 

You turn your back to the idling Lexus. “Hi.” You can hear your brother’s sigh.

“Y/N,” he says. “It’s good to hear from you. How have you been?” 

You shrug despite the fact that your brother cannot see it. You look down and kick a small pebble further down the sidewalk. “Fine. Work keeps me busy. You?” 

“Same,” your brother replies. “Long hours. Little sleep. Living off the vending machines whenever I’m not home.” 

“That sounds terrible,” you say. 

“It’s better than working for Dad,” your brother says.

You look over your shoulder towards the black Lexus for a moment. “Yeah…well…you do what you’re good at, and I do what I’m good at.” 

“Y/N–”

“Why did you want to talk?” you cut in. 

Your brother lets out another sigh. “I had a visitor last night.”

You look back down towards the sidewalk and spot another tiny pebble. You kick that one further down the sidewalk. 

“Your friend from Ohio.”

Your gaze snaps up and lands on the phone. Your grip on the receiver tightens as your heart starts to beat faster. 

“I’m pretty sure you know who I’m talking about since she mentioned running into you earlier,” your brother says. 

“She found you?” It’s the only question you can think of. Your mind is racing so fast. 

“I’m not that hard to find,” your brother replies. “It’s you she’s trying to find.”

Your free hand comes up and you press the palm of your hand against your forehead. You can’t fight back the smile that curls your lips. She’s trying to find you. And she’s closer now. It won’t be just luck that drops her back into your life. Just a matter of time. You can hardly wait. 

“She knows about your work,” your brother says. 

Your smile grows as you close your eyes. “What did she say?”

“That you’re really good,” he answers. 

You wonder how much she knows. Does she only know about your jobs in Amsterdam and London? “High praise from the dearly departed.” 

“Yeah, I…I’m sorry,” he replies. “I was just as confused about what happened. I just saw Dad twisting it into another one of his crazy theories and I…” 

Suddenly you’re back in Ohio standing in your front yard. The house across the street that once radiated an irresistible warmth stands cold and empty. Trapped in your small body, you feel numb. You don’t understand. 

“...I didn’t want him to hurt you more,” your brother’s words lead you back to the payphone. You open your eyes. “So I told you what I thought would give you the most closure.”

You run your fingers down the length of the phone cord. There’s something you want to say to your brother that has nothing to do with friends coming back from an assumed death. But you don’t know how to say it. So you stand there in silence.  

“We need to meet. All three of us.”

You blink and your brow furrows. “Why?”

“Because whatever Dad has you doing is more than just contract work,” he replies. “Your friend seems to think that your past jobs are all connected to something bigger. And knowing Dad, she wouldn’t be wrong.” 

You glance back at the black Lexus. “What else did she say?” 

“That she’s going to find you.” 

You wonder what she was wearing when she spoke with your brother. 

“Y/N, this is serious.”

You shake your head. “Fine. I’ll call you when I’m back at my place.” You say your goodbyes and hang up the phone. You tuck your brother’s phone number into your pocket and return to the car. The moment you settle back into your seat and shut the door, the car starts moving. 

The drive to your destination is not long. In less than an hour the car rolls up the driveway of a large luxurious mansion. The night air is cool when you step out of the car. The mansion’s large glass windows shine from the lights within. The quiet of the surrounding trees and gardens scattered throughout the estate reminds you of the peaceful quiet of your little cabin tucked far away. 

Your father’s orders are simple and straightforward. You are attending a party hosted by your father’s very important clients. Dine. Drink. Have fun. Don’t do anything else unless he tells you. You don’t argue. While you don’t care about these clients, you don’t mind entertaining yourself on their dime. 

The mansion is warm and bright when you enter. The sound of jazz music mixes with the lively hum of voices as you take in the sight of so many people all dressed in their finest suits and gowns. You don’t recognize any of them. Perhaps you should. These are all important people. People with some sliver of power. Certainly these people are probably CEOs or politicians or other important leaders. You wonder, as you casually walk further into the mansion, whether or not you’ve killed for these people before. 

The thought amuses you so much that you decide to make up stories for each stranger you pass. You had long left your father to mingle with his clients as you passed by two happy couples laughing at some joke. Your own lips lift into a smile despite not knowing what exactly they were laughing about. You just imagine shoving their old lovers, flames of passion long since burned out, off the roof of a mansion. Both couples looked like they owned mansions like this one. You imagine standing on the roof’s edge and looking down. You struggle to decide how strangely their bodies would break upon landing. It’s a hole in your imagination, but you are certain about the ring of blood that would surround the bodies. 

You swipe a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. You take a sip as you enter a much larger room. Off in the corner, a live jazz band is playing while more rich strangers mingle amongst each other. You spot a group of six gentlemen standing underneath a large abstract painting. As they talk, you imagine crushing the head of their rival beneath the sole of your boot. The rival’s scream would be terribly short lived and replaced with the crunch of breaking bone. You finish off your champagne and exchange your empty glass for another when another waiter passes. You also snatch up a fancy looking appetizer that tastes of a lovely blend of cheeses. 

You sip on your second glass of champagne as you wander around the crowded room. Your fantasies about these strangers fuels you. Barely an hour passes and you have imagined killing so many people. You can’t decide which fantasy is your favorite. You are torn between running over a sheriff with a tank or smothering an ex-lover in their bed. Both fantasies have an alluring thrill to them. You are starting to lean more towards the tank when one of the waiters stops next to you with a silver tray full of more drinks.   

“Would you like a new drink?” 

You abandon your fantasies the moment her voice reaches your ear. You look to your right. Standing next to you is Nat. She is dressed like all the other waiters roaming the busy rooms. Her white collared, button up shirt is nicely pressed and barren of a single blemish. The black vest she wears over her shirt is also without a single wrinkle. Black trousers cover the legs you remember straddling you back in Amsterdam. Her red hair is pulled back into another intricate braid that you are starting to adore. 

You look down at the empty champagne glass in your hand. The light chattering of all the other guests does not falter. The band continues to play. You feel the same rush from London warming every inch of you. Your earlier worries suddenly seem so humorous. You thought you had run too far ahead. You thought you knew what to do after hanging up the phone with your brother. Slow down. Give her time to catch up. 

But she has already caught up to you. 

And you can hardly contain your happiness. 

Your smile returns when your gaze lifts to meet her stare. “I’d love one.” You set your empty champagne glass onto the silver tray she is holding, and grab a fresh one. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks. 

You take a sip of your third glass of champagne. “I am now that I have better company.” You gesture to the full glasses on the tray. “You should have some. It’s not very good, but it tastes expensive.” 

She turns slightly. “I’m working.” 

That’s hardly a surprise. If it’s not you working then it’s her. If she’s not working then you never see her. “When do you get off?” 

She doesn’t answer you, and you think you see a hint of a smile on her face, but another guest snatches away her attention before you can know for sure. You watch as she leaves and approaches the guest who called her over. The guest grabs two glasses of champagne before she walks off. You don’t follow. You stand there, sipping on your champagne, and watch. Every thought in your head is screaming for you to go after her. You still have so many questions. You still crave that blissful high you feel when it is just the two of you. You watch as she makes her way through the mingling guests. You finish your champagne the moment you see her disappear into another room. She shuts the door behind her and you can feel your palms start to sweat again. You know what this is. The invitation is blatantly clear. 

Your gaze sweeps around the gathered guests. You don’t see your father anywhere. Probably off talking to even more important clients. Perfect. You dump your glass onto the tray of another passing waiter as you cut through the crowd. Nobody else goes near the door as you get close. You turn and take one more look around at the busy party. Still no sign of your father. Just more strangers. You turn the doorknob, push open the door, and step into the room. 

This room is much smaller and not as brightly lit as the others. It looks to be some kind of entertaining room that only old wealth would have. In the middle of the room is a large wooden round table with eight dark brown leather armchairs surrounding it. Sitting on top of the table was the silver tray still full of drinks. Off on the right hand side of the room is an empty fireplace. To the left is a small bar where you find Nat. 

The door clicks shut behind you and muffles the noise of the party. You make your way to the table and settle into the armchair closest to the silver tray. “Are there any more of those fancy pigs in a blanket back there?” You grab a new glass off the tray and look over towards Nat. 

She turns around to face you. In her hands is a bottle of whiskey and two tumbler glasses. “No, but I think I found something better.” 

You smile as Nat sets the bottle and glasses down on the table. As she sits down in the armchair next to you, you reach forward and grab the bottle of whiskey. You examine the fancy label. “These people are always the same. They feed everyone the bad stuff and keep the good stuff for themselves.” You lift your champagne glass to your lips, tilt your head back, and finish the champagne in one greedy drink. You set the empty glass aside and reach for the two tumbler glasses. “I thought you were working.” 

“I am,” she replies. “I’m on break.” 

You open the bottle of whiskey. “Fun job?” 

She shrugs. “Recon.” 

You pour the whiskey into the two tumbler glasses. “I was never much of a fan of those jobs. Made the days feel long. I prefer keeping busy.” You set the whiskey bottle down before pushing one of the glasses towards Nat. She is watching you, and you love it. “But at least you have entertainment and good company. I spent my last recon job in a bunker.” Your smile drops a little at the memory. 

Her head tilts a little to the side. “The Idaho job?” 

You are about to pick up your glass, but stop. Your gaze had dropped to the fancy amber liquid. You try to remember when you had taken that job. It felt like a lifetime ago, but it couldn’t have been that long after your eighteenth birthday. That’s when you found your ‘groove’. When you had finally beat out the last bit of you that flinched every time you pulled the trigger. Your smile returns when you meet her olive green eyes again. How far back did she dig? Your fingers curl around the glass. “Two weeks spent in a place that smelled like piss and sweat. It’s hard to maintain your cover when you want to gag every time one of them goes near you.” 

“But you did,” she says as you lift the glass to your lips and take a drink of the whiskey. The smooth nutty taste washes over your tongue. “I doubt Hickman would have kept his back to you if he didn’t trust you.” 

The whiskey burns pleasantly as it goes down your throat. “Someone has done their research.” The memories of the Idaho job are still fuzzy, but you remember the weight of the shotgun in your hands. You remember the satisfaction you felt seeing Hickman’s body jerk forward from the deafening blast. The smell of gunpowder. The pieces of his head sticking to his desk. You lean forward and rest your arms on the table as you take another sip of your whiskey. “What do you think?” 

She doesn’t answer right away. Your heart is beating against your chest as you wait. You don’t exactly know what you want to hear from her. You just hope that it isn’t disgust. You have tasted bitter disappointment so often these past few weeks. You can’t take much more of it. 

“I think you’re really good,” she says. 

As your heart soars, you see a kind of sadness in her eyes that you don’t understand. 

“You have a very specific skill set.” 

Your smile grows as you lean back into the armchair. You hold your glass of whiskey in your hand. Her gaze never wanders from yours, and you don’t see any telltale signs of fear. It’s so common among all the people you meet when they realize what you are. But she’s not afraid. She doesn’t even look angry. It fills you with so much hope. It’s almost perfect. You just don’t understand why she looks sad. 

“Thanks for the compliment, Nat,” you say before you finish your whiskey. “I’m so glad you’re not dead. I missed having someone normal to talk to.” You see a flash of a smile cross her face. “We still need to catch up when we’re not doing all of…” you raised your arm and gestured with your hand towards the door. “...this. When are you free next?” 

“If you come with me, we’ll have plenty of time to catch up tonight,” she replies. 

“Tempting,” you say. “But I have a prior commitment I can’t miss. A family thing.” You stand up and set your empty glass down on the table. “But I’ll reach out after.” You turn and start towards the door. When you reach the door, you reach for the doorknob but stop. You turn and find Nat still sitting at the table. “Next time let’s do coffee.”

Her smile returns. It’s small, but it fills you with so much warmth. “That would be nice.”

Your hand falls upon the doorknob and when the door cracks open, the noise of the party spills into the room. You step out and back into the mingling crowd of guests. You allow your feet to carry you across the room as your mind begins laying the foundation of your next meeting with Nat. You end up so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice your father until he is walking up to you with the proudest smile you’ve ever seen on his face. 

His hand settles heavily on your shoulder. “We’re almost there, Y/N.”

[mamaestapa]

Happily Ever After

•pairing: Joe Burrow x reader

•series summary: Y/N Y/L/N moved to Cincinnati, Ohio for a new start. Move in day arrives and she discovers something terrible...the apartment complex gave her the wrong lease. Instead of living with who she originally was supposed to, she's now living with the hottest quarterback in the NFL, Joe Burrow. Y/N is stuck living in the same apartment with him for a year...which the two are not thrilled about. However, as time goes on, they realize that maybe this wasn't the worst thing that could happen to them. Will Y/N and Joe stay enemies, or will they find themselves falling in love?

•chapter summary: You move into your new home with Joe and reminisce on all that has happened to you this past year. You finally get your happily ever after❤️

•word count: 4.1k

•warnings: pregnancy, crying, reminiscing on the past, mentions of sex, and LOTS of fluff. this series is coming to an end y'all!

series masterlist

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September 10, 2023

"Y/n!" Joe gasped, rushing into your room and knocking the box of clothes out of your hands and onto the bed. You whipped your head around and looked at him in shock, "What the hell was that for!?" He started to pick up a few articles of clothing that had fallen out of the box when he knocked it onto the bed. He shook his head as he spoke.

"You can't carry any boxes." Joe picked up the box and brought it out of your room to put with the other boxes sitting in the living room. You rolled your eyes and followed him out of your room. "It wasn't heavy, Joseph. They're just clothes, it was super light!" Joe just shook his head and went back in for more boxes. "I don't care," he said, walking back out with more of your packed up belongings, "I don't want you picking up anything—heavy or not." Joe sat the box down and pointed at your belly, "You're carrying precious cargo, Y/n. I don't want you or the baby to get hurt."

You cocked your head to the side and gave him your best RBF. Ever since Joe found out you were pregnant, he's been extremely protective over you and the baby. Joe had to be around you for every little thing you did. You wanted something to eat? He'd follow you into the kitchen and make you a snack. You had to pee? He'd follow you into the bathroom (Which, you'd make him leave everytime). You had to go work? He insisted on driving you there. Every little thing you did, Joe had to be there to make sure you were OK. It's a very sweet gesture, yes, but you know you and the baby will be fine. He doesn't need to constantly worry about the two of you.

"Joe," you sighed, "I'm pregnant, not dying or incapable of doing anything. I can pick up a box or two." Joe frowned slightly, "I know, I just don't want anything to happen to the little guy or girl."

He grazed his fingertips over the small bump that was beginning to form in your lower abdomen. "Just let me help, please?" you said softly, grabbing his hand and placing it on your belly, "I promise we'll be fine. You heard what my OB said at my appointment, as long as I don't lift heavy objects constantly, Baby Burrow will be fine." You put your hand over his, rubbing your thumb over his, "so can I help, please?"

He looked down at you and sighed, "Fine," you smiled and went to reach for a box, but Joe held a hand out to stop you, "but only the small boxes."

You nodded and picked up a box full of your clothes. Joe winked at you as he picked up two large boxes, stacking them on top of the other. You followed him out to the U-Haul that was parked out in the front of the complex next to your cars.

Today, you and Joe are moving into your new home. Joe had been house hunting for the past year while he lived in the apartment with you. He found the perfect home back in July and after closing on it, after you told him that you were pregnant, he asked you to move in with him. You of course said yes, so that leads the two of you to where you are today. Packing up and loading boxes into a U-Haul to move in to your new, hopefully, forever home just outside of downtown Cincinnati. Joe placed the boxes he was holding in the back of the trailer before he grabbed the box you were holding. "Whew," Joe breathed out as he shut the trailer door. He turned to you and smiled, squinting slightly as the sun shown brightly into his eyes.

"Was that everything?" he asked, readjusting the black headband on his forehead.

"I think so," you smiled, reaching out to help him push a couple dark blonde waves away from his forehead. Joe had started growing his hair out during the off-season. It was a different look from his usual short haircut, but it was a good different. You weren't usually into the long hair style, but Joe pulled it off well. Especially when he paired it with a headband. It got to be a little too long over the summer, so you made him trim it back to what it looked like in May. However, after his trim, he told you he'd have a couple more weeks with the longer hair before he cut it back to his usual style. As much as you liked this new look, you did miss Joe's short hair.

"Thanks." he smiled softly as you took your hand away from his head. You hummed and smiled sweetly at him. Joe reached out and grabbed your hand, squeezing it softly as he said, "should we go back up and make sure we got everything?" you nodded and followed him back up to apartment B30 for the last time.

Joe opened the door to the apartment, letting you walk in first. You slowly started to walk around the empty apartment, looking around at all of the rooms full of memories. Nothing was left in the apartment except for the all of the included furniture and appliances. Joe walked up behind you and draped an arm around your waist as the two of you walked through the apartment, checking for left behind items and reminiscing on the past 12 months. As you walked into the living room, Joe chuckled softly. You looked up at him, scrunching your nose slightly as you asked, "What?"

"Remember that time when you walked in on me on the couch with that one girl?"

You rolled your eyes. That's definitely something you do not want to remember. "I remember all right." you mumbled. Joe gently grabbed your chin and made you look up at him. He leaned in and nuzzled his nose against yours before capturing your lips in a sweet kiss.

"I have better memories on that couch with you though." He said softly as he pulled away, giving you a small smile. You smiled back at him and rested your head on his right pec as you looked at the bare, cream colored couch.

"How about the time you and I stayed up all night talking during that storm?"

Joe hummed, squeezing you gently, "That's a good one. That night was the night I realized I was falling in love with you." you turned around in his embrace, looking up and gazing into his soft blue eyes, "Really?" "Really." He confirmed with a firm nod.

Despite the raging storm outside, that night was one of the best nights of your life.

Both you and Joe moved from the living room, to the kitchen. All the memories of early morning shared breakfasts before practice and work, and the time you and Joe shared your first kiss, came flooding back to you. A smile made its way onto your face as you looked around the kitchen. Joe wrapped his arms around your waist, letting his hands rest gently on your belly. You hummed in content as he squeezed you gently.

"I cant wait for all of the breakfasts in the new house. With you," he kissed your temple, "me, and this little peanut here." he said, stroking your small bump. You smiled and leaned into Joe's touch. His embrace was always comforting, feeling like home. Although this baby was not planned and definitely unexpected, You and Joe couldn't wait to love on the little guy or girl, and share so many special memories as a family of three. Well, four including your sweet puppy Bean.

You left the kitchen and went into the bathroom, checking for any left behind items while also sharing a laugh about the time Joe walked in on you falling into the toilet after he left the toilet seat up. Looking back, it's actually quite funny. But in the moment, you had never been so pissed off at somebody. After checking the bathroom, the two of you double checked both yours and Joe's bedrooms, finding nothing but good memories to reminisce on once again. The two of you walked out of Joe's bedroom and back to the living room. You stood in the middle of the empty room, your eyes surveying the bare walls and empty shelves. Joe wrapped his arms around you and pulled your body into his. You started to tear up as you thought about moving out.

Moving on from things has always made you emotional. Plus, being pregnant doesn't help with your emotions either.

Joe kissed your temple as you sniffled. "It's okay." he said softly. You just nodded against him, "I know," you said shakily, "so much has happened in this place in the last year. It's bittersweet having to leave. I'm so thankful for all of the memories, but most importantly," you turned around and looked up at Joe, "I'm thankful for all of the relationships it's given me." you finished, your voice growing to a whisper.

It's crazy how much can change in a year. When you first moved to Cincinnati and found yourself placed in apartment B30, your life was all over the place. You didn't have a job, you had no clue what to do with your life, and most importantly you had a roommate you didn't get along with at all. But as time went on, things changed and your life was actually starting to come together a bit. You got a job doing what you love, you made new friends for life, and you and Joe were starting to finally get along. You even had a little fling with one of the sweetest guys you know. While your time with Evan was short lived, you're thankful for his friendship. Fast forward a couple months after that and your life was changing, for the better. You realized you were in love with Joe, and finding out he shared those same feelings had you on cloud nine. After months of mutual, unspoken pining, You and Joe became an official couple. And so much has happened since you got together. You've shared intimate moments, went on many vacations, and shared laughs and good times with friends. But most importantly, you have grown into a little family. The two of you soon became three when you adopted your Goldendoodle puppy Bean. You loved taking care of the puppy together, Bean giving the two of you a look into what it would be like to be parents someday. While it happened a lot sooner than you and Joe ever expected, your little family of three was growing into four. In about seven months, you and Joe will be having a baby of your own to love unconditionally. The perfect mix of you and him created from your love.

In just the span of a year, you went from being completely lost in Cincinnati, to being right at home. In just the span of a year, you went from having your life in shambles, to having your life finally put together. And in just the span of a year, you went from hating Joe, to loving him endlessly and having his baby.

It's crazy how much can happen in one year, huh?

Joe kissed your temple and spoke softly, "I love you Y/n. You've made this past year the best I've ever had."

You sniffled and snuggled yourself into Joe's firm chest. He wrapped his arms securely around you, lightly swaying you back and forth. "I love you so much." you muttered out against his chest, the feeling of so many different emotions still evident in your tone. He rubbed your back as you held onto each other for a few minutes. When you were ready, you pulled away from his embrace and looked up at him with a soft smile.

"Thank you for everything."

Joe smiled, "I should be the one thanking you, sweetheart." you hummed and wrapped your arms around him once again, the two of you giving the other a gentle squeeze. Joe pulled away and held onto your forearms as he spoke, "You ready to go?"

You nodded, smiling softly, "Yes."

With that, Joe grabbed your hand as you both took one last look at the apartment that has been your home for the past year. So much has happened in this one little apartment. So much that you and Joe both will cherish forever.

You will forever be thankful for your landlord Carol for making you keep that lease for the whole year...

~time skip~

"Thanks for helping us unload, Sam. You're the best." Joe said, hugging his best friend. Sam clapped Joe's back and nodded,  "Of course man, anytime." The two football players pulled away from each other, Sam moving to give you a hug next.

"Thank you so much Sam," you smiled, patting his back gently. He pulled away and nodded, "It's not a problem. Glad I could help." Sam looked around the house and whistled.

"You got yourself a nice place, Joe."

Joe smiled and walked up to me, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you into him. "Only the best for my girls."

Sam's eyes lit up, "Baby Burrow's a girl!?"

You chuckled as Joe shook his head. "No," he said, "well, maybe. We don't know yet."

Sam smiled, "Sophia James would be happy if her cousins a girl."

"We'll find out at our next appointment," you placed your hand on your belly, "but I think we're going to wait to find out what it is. Macee and Logan want to plan a gender reveal for us."

Sam nodded, "They did the same thing for Emma and I. Macee and Logan are the nicest people I know."

It's true, Macee and Logan are the sweetest. You're so thankful you got to meet both of them.

"They are." you mused with a smile.

The three of you stood around in the empty living room of the house in silence. Sam broke the silence by bidding you and Joe farewell, saying he couldn't wait to bring Em and SJ next time for the house warming party you would be throwing in the next week or so. You, Joe, and Bean stood outside the entrance of the house and waved goodbye to Sam as he pulled out of the concrete driveway.

The house is in a subdivision just outside of downtown Cincy. It's a pretty quiet area, but you can still hear the sound of the busy traffic and the occasional yell of playing children. The location is the perfect place for your little family. The house itself is extremely nice, nicer than any house you have ever lived in before. It has a white exterior, with black shudders and a black roof. Pink roses are planted in the front lawn, along with other kinds of landscaping around the house. The interior of the house was just as nice. The house has five bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms. The walls in the kitchen, living room, dining room and bathrooms are painted gray. The bedrooms however, are all painted white. The kitchen and living room are all one open space, while the diving room is in a separate room just off of the kitchen. The rooms are all very spacious and extremely nice—the bathrooms just as nice the bedrooms. The basement was finished with an at home gym and another living room, perfect for movie nights with the family.

The house was just perfect. It was perfect for you, Joe, Bean, and the little baby growing in your belly.

You and Joe spent a couple hours unpacking all of the boxes and getting the bedroom set up so you could have a good nights sleep in the bed of your new home. You both decided you'd try to get most of the unpacking out of the way today and tonight, so that you can start putting things away and decorating around the house the next couple of days.

As you were unpacking things in the kitchen, Joe pulled out magnets and pictures you put on the fridge at the apartment. You watched as he walked over to the stainless steel refrigerator, smiling to himself as he hung up a photo of the two of you on your first date. Joe's smile widened as he put the picture of your latest ultrasound right next to the photo of you and him.

"There," he said, glancing at you with a smile, "that's better."

You smiled and dropped the kitchen towels down on the counter. You walked over to Joe and wrapped your arms around his torso, "It looks perfect." He looked down at you with a smile. You kissed his back and rested your cheek against the material of his blue t-shirt. You hummed before you said, "What did you mean earlier, when you said my girls?"

Joe grabbed onto your hand as you pulled yourself away from him. He moved so that you could stand in front of him. His hands snaked around your waist, resting them on both sides of your tummy. He rested his chin on your shoulder as he nodded at the ultrasound photo on the fridge.

"I have a feeling it's a girl," he shrugged with a smirk plastered on his face, "fathers instinct." you shook your head as a smile pulled at the corners of your mouth, "Guess we'll have to wait and see if that instinct is right or not." Joe chuckled and kissed my cheek, "My instincts are always right sweets, always."

You pulled away from his embrace, patting his chest as you smiled teasingly, "Sure babe."

You and Joe went back to unpacking the kitchen before he decided to show you a couple rooms in the house you hadn't gotten the chance to look at yet.

~time skip~

"Now this," Joe said, bringing you into one the bedrooms, "is my favorite room in the whole house."

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. Why would a room with white walls and absolutely nothing in it be his favorite?

"Is this going to be your sports memorabilia room?" you joked, letting out a light laugh. Joes lips curled into a smile as he shook his head, "No you dork," he teased, making you smile.

"It's our baby's nursery," he shrugged, "well, it will be once we paint the walls and get all that baby stuff in here."

You started to walk around the larger room, beaming with joy as you imagined the room full of baby things. A crib, changing table, soft blankets, baby books, bottles, and lots and lots of diapers. All of these thoughts of baby items would soon be a reality for you and Joe in about seven months. You stood in the middle of room, the smile never leaving your face as you looked at Joe, who was leaning against the doorway watching you with a grin.

"You picked the perfect room for Baby Burrow." you said softly as you gazed into his love filled blue eyes. "I know I did," Joe shrugged, smiling sheepishly. You walked over to where he was standing in the doorway. He placed his hand on your shoulder, kneading into it gently as the two of you gazed into the room.

"I can't wait to bring the little peanut home and show her her room." you said, voice filled with happiness. Joe smirked down at you in amusement as the words left your mouth.

"Y/n, you said her."

You smiled, "I know. Mothers instinct." you looked up at Joe, both of your smiles growing wider at the possibility of your baby being a girl. Joe shared with you a couple nights ago that he doesn't care what the gender of the baby is, all he cares about is that the baby is happy and healthy...but he'd love a little girl to spoil.

Both of you stayed in the room that would be your baby's nursery for a while, talking about decorations and how you would arrange the nursery to make it perfect for your guys' son or daughter. After leaving the nursery, Joe took you down to the basement so that you could see the living room area down there.

"Wow," you gasped upon entering the basement and seeing how it was set up, "I love this!"

"Yeah?"

You nodded, "It looks really nice. This will be perfect for when we have friends and family over." Joe nodded and sat down on the couch, Bean jumping up and sitting next to him. "I thought so too," he said. He looked up at you as he grabbed the puppy, letting her sit in his lap. Joe patted the cushion next to him.

"Come sit down, Y/n. You've done too much standing today."

You smiled and obliged, sitting down next to Joe on the cream colored couch. He wrapped an arm around the back of the couch, letting his hand rest on your bicep as you snuggled close to him. Bean got up from Joe's lap and laid between the two of you, snuggling up to your belly as she got comfortable. You brought a hand down to the puppy's head, stroking her golden soft curly ears. She was always a cuddly dog, but she's gotten even more cuddly since you've been pregnant. You laid your head against Joe's chest, the two of you letting out content sighs as you sat in each others embrace. Joe let his hand move from your bicep to cup your growing bump.

"I love you so much, Y/n. You've made me the happiest I've ever been. Living with you has been the best thing that's ever happened to me." Joe spoke softly as he looked down at you with a look full of endless love.

"I love you more, Joe. Thank you for bringing my life together. Earlier this year my life was a wreck. I had no idea what I was doing and my life was all over the place," you placed your hand over his that was cupping your belly, "but you, you brought my life together in ways I never thought were possible." Tears were welling up in your eyes as you poured your heart out to Joe. Joe grinned and captured your lips in a sweet, passionate kiss.

Your life was absolutely perfect. You have your dream job, the best boyfriend you could ever ask for, and a baby on the way.

You never thought your life would play out like this when you moved to Cincinnati and signed that one year lease to live in apartment B30. You never expected to be in love with and have a baby with the biggest heartthrob of Cincinnati himself: Joe Burrow.

You always thought your "happily ever after" was going to be in Arizona--but you were wrong.

You finally got your happily ever after in Cincinnati. All because of a switched up lease for an apartment that you will forever be thankful for. Why? Because that apartment gave you Joe. That apartment gave you your best friends. Most of all, that apartment gave you your family—all in the span of a year.

It truly is so crazy how much can happen to you in just one year.

All of the amazing things that happened to you this year just makes you even more excited to see what the future holds for yours and Joe's family in the next few years...

hey loves!!

AHHHHHHH!!! this is the last chapter of this series! so crazy right!?

well, there's still an epilogue, but i don't really count that as a chapter😂

but i cant believe i've finished this series! this series was so much fun to write and i'm extremely happy with how it turned out. i hope you all enjoyed this crazy ride as much as i did. i wouldn't have been able to finish this series without all of your love and support🤍 every chapter of this series you all had some sort of positive and encouraging comment. it makes me so happy to see you all enjoy my writing as much as i enjoy it. you are all so amazing. your love and support, your likes, reblogs and comments, all mean the world to me! YOU are what keeps me motivated to write. i love you all! THANK YOU SO SO MUCH🤍🤍🤍

once again, i hope you all enjoyed this series!! i know i did! now the main focus is DADDY ISSUES!!

that's all i have for now loves. thank you for sticking with me through out this book and reading about Y/n and Joe. i'll miss writing about them so much!

epilogue coming soon and then this book is OVER! finishing a series is so bittersweet to me. i didn't think i'd be able to finish another one, but i'm so proud of myself for doing it :)

hope you are all doing well!

tags: @jackharloww @ilovejoeburroww @dandelionwrites8 @ijustcrypretty @sinners-98-world @a-moment-captured @stainednailpolishremover @spooky-stoner @xoxokiaraaxoxo @kkrenae @hallecarey1 @jordyn14

[hyperfixatedoncrimminalminds]

So I accidentally deleted this request but I have written it so sorry to whoever wrote it.

Request : Okok, Teen!Male!reader x Spencer Ried (platonic obvs) when reader ends up getting mixed up a crime/murder in the drug scene. They aren't the unsub but they struggle with addiction and has an ally cat type attitude so it makes it difficult to get any information out of him. Spencer is like a father figure and they start to get close, helping reader through out the case/ recovery.

I love this idea

Third person pov...

Spencer Reid and Derek Morgan arrive on scene, there is a serial killer runnng around kidnapping upstanding people then killing people by overdosing them on different drugs.

The latest victim was a mother with two children under the ages of 10, with no history of drug use she is currently the 5th victim, where they found her was in a dumpster in ohio.

"Looks like the rest of the victims" Says Derek as he kneels next to the body of Samantha Doyle. Spencer nods and looks around the scene. "As well as the dump site, he threw her away like trash." He says, as he looks he notices a boy looking no older then 15 being talked to by the police.

Confused Spence leaves Morgan and walks over to one of the police officers. "Hey excuse me, whats he doing here?" He asks nodding over at the boy and officer.

The office next to him looks over. "Oh yeah him, he's been hanging around sayin' he saw something. Don't bother with 'im he's an addict got loads of them here" he tells the agent, Spencer thanks the man but doesn't take his eyes of the teen.

The officer just sighs and leaves the boy, he was watching with intense curiosity. The boy had messy hair and dark circles under his eyes, giving the impression of a troubled soul.

Spencer's mind immediately went into profiling mode, trying to figure out the boy's story, he walked over to the boy and introduced himself, "Hi, I'm Dr. Spencer Reid. And you are?"

The young man shrugged his shoulders tapping his hand nervously. "Y/N" he says bearly over a mumble but Spencer hears him. "Well Y/N, did you see anything here?" He asked.

The young detective immediately noticed the troubled look in (Y/n)'s eyes, and he could see the fear and guilt written all over his face.

Spencer's empathetic nature kicked in, and he knew that there was more to this young man than meets the eye.

(Y/n) was like a wounded alley cat, always on edge and unwilling to trust anyone. The 15 year old didn't say anything. "How about you come to the station to talk" Says the genius.

Y/N thinks before nodding, either way they were going to make him talk might as well get it over with, soon the boy is sat in the back of thr SUV with two Agents.

They try and talk to him more but only get a few words out bef they take him to the interrogation room to talk, as Y/N sits and waits he thinks over his life.

He's been hooked on drugs since he was 12 when he was 10 his Mother died leaving him with his abusive Father, he would kick little Y/N around all day until the boy finally turned to drugs to dull the pain.

It's worked all those years and he's hooked, finally when he was 14 he ran away and had beeb living on the streets, pick pocketing people who walk past him.

He met many different people throughout the last year, not many of them were nice most were arsehole and criminals, but last night traumatised him.

He was in his usual place counting the money he managed to pick pocket of some people, when he heard something. He saw a guy dressed in dark clothes throughing something in the dumpster.

Y/N didn't bother with it, but he got curious and stuck behind a dumpster and got a pretty good look at what was happening, his E/C eyes widened in shock.

It was a body, the man was throwing her into the dumpster, Y/N ducks into the darkness when the guy turns around, he gets a good look at his face before he leaves in a truck.

It was to dark to see the number plate, Y/N walks closer to the body, her lifeless eyes stare into his dark tired ones, she looked alot like his Mother.

Shivering he closed her eyes and left to go back to his place where he sleeps and tried to forget what he saw.

The door to the room opens bringing the teen back into the real world, Spencer had told everyone to stay there thay he would handle it.

He closed the door and sat in the chair oppos the boy, Y/N wasnt ha dcuffed and coukd ove but didn't he kept sat down.

Spencer decis to take a different approach, he reaches into his pocket and takes out a pack of cards.

"Mind if I play a game of solitaire?" Spencer asked, trying to lighten the mood To his surprise, the young man slowly reached out and took the cards. As they played, Spencer asked more questions, trying to get some information about the crime and the drug scene in the area.

As he played Y/N became a little more reaced but was still on guard and keeping Spencer at arms lengt.

Y/N still didn't reveal much, but Spencer could tell he was holding back. He also noticed the subtle tremors in Y/Ns hands and the needle marks on his arm.

He soon realized that Y/N was not the unsub, but rather a lost soul struggling with addiction and trauma, this brought him back to when he was addicted to delaudid.

After a few games Y/N began opening up about what he sawast night, he told him everything he remembered, this helped the team alot tk catch the bastard.

Throughout the case Without judgment, Spencer offered to help Y/N get clean and get out of the dangerous world of drugs. With the help of Y/N the team manages to catch the killer sooner than they had hoped.

As the case progressed, Spencer and the H/C teen grew closer. They spent long nights talking and playing cards, and Spencer could see the potential in the young man. He was intelligent and quick-witted, but his addiction was holding him back.

Y/N was also hesitant to trust anyone, but he slowly opened up to Spencer, after having an awful relationship with his bio father seeing him Spencer as a father figure scared him, Spence became more invested in the teens recovery and helping him turn his life around.

With the help of the team, they were able to track down the murder suspect, Y/N even played a crucial role in gathering information, using his 'alley cat attitude' to his advantage.

As the case came to a close, Spencer and Y/N celebrated with a game of cards and a heartfelt conversation. Y/N thanked Spencer for his help and guidance, and Spencer promised to always be there for him.

From that day on, Y/N focused on his recovery with the support of his new family at the BAU. He still had his struggles, but with Spencer by his side, he knew he could overcome them.

Spencer, on the other hand, learned a valuable lesson about not judging a book by its cover. Y/N may have been mixed up in the drug scene, but he was more than just an addict. He was a survivor.

The end!

Hope you liked this oneshot, slowly getting through these requests. Sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes.

Request are open!

Word count: 1312

[natureismynature]

Currently watching the vod where Fooligetta went to couple's therapy and holy shit Vegetta's a traveler.

We have Ohio man who doesn't even have a passport and IRL royalty who's gone and visited like 11 different parts of the world and counting

[reality-detective]

Who would of thought? 👇

How many people are going to comply with this bullshit👆

The area of airborne contamination extends 200 miles out in every direction and that doesn't count water contamination that's flowing downstream in the Ohio River into the Mississippi River.👇

Even indoor pets are dying dogs and cats along with cattle, chickens and fish. How many people will perish from this environmental catastrophe? 🤔

[sapphicromanoffxo]

Lucky Ones | v. Missing Piece

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Word count: 3,429

Warnings: Mommy kink, strap on use, spanking, dirty talk, praise kink, squirting, choking, dom/sub dynamic

Summary: Natasha's past is slowly catching up with the present.

A/N: I edited the second chapter and added a tiny information. You can read that one again if you'd like. :)

»»-----------► Series Masterlist

The weather in New York during the start of November carries a gentle breeze, which Natasha particularly enjoys. She has a preference for colder climates, relishing the opportunity to layer her clothing and complete her daily outfits with cozy boots. Perhaps it's her Russian upbringing that influenced this preference, as she lived for years in a predominantly cold climate region before moving to America.

Natasha was having a rather relaxed day at work, and got bored with watching the world through her glass walls so she decided to give her Mom a call, and Milena answered promptly.

"Nat! I'm so delighted you reached out. How's my little one?" Milena inquired with such genuine warmth.

"Mom, I'm actually 35 now. I'm not your little one anymore," Natasha replied with a playful sigh.

"Oh Nat, age doesn't matter; you'll always be my cherished child who used to ask for a glass of milk when she couldn't sleep."

This comment brought a smile to Natasha's face. "Well, I guess milk does work wonders for insomnia."

The two women continued their conversation, catching up on the latest updates from the orphanage and how they were handling the new children.

Listening to Milena's updates triggered memories of Natasha's time at the orphanage. She had been just 13 years old, a teenager, when she found herself in that place. Milena had made sure to create a homey atmosphere, always attentive to her needs, and eager to ensure her comfort. She had been a shy kid who rarely spoke, but Milena's care and kindness had slowly helped her come out of her shell.

Milena's innate motherly instincts stirred within her when it came to Natasha, and she couldn't quite pinpoint the exact reason she felt such a strong connection. Perhaps it was their shared Russian heritage that provided a common bond. Natasha had previously lived in Ohio and was placed in the orphanage by the US government. Milena immediately attended to Natasha, her fragile frame spoke volumes about the hardships she had endured, and her green eyes, once filled with youthful curiosity, now bore the weight of a past too heavy for someone so young.

Milena couldn't help but feel an intense protectiveness toward Natasha. One day, she confided in her husband, Alexei, expressing her desire to adopt Natasha. Understanding the goodness in Natasha's heart, Alexei readily agreed to Milena's heartfelt wish.

The journey through the adoption process was lengthy, but Milena remained resolute in her determination. It wasn't until Natasha reached the age of 15 that the adoption was finalised. That's the first time in Natasha's life where she saw the light again and Milena couldn't contain her joy upon hearing the news. She welcomed Natasha into their loving home.

However, life wasn't all smooth sailing and happiness, as the new parents recognized the need to enroll Natasha in therapy. Natasha had faced a difficult pas and Milena saw this as an opportunity to help Natasha heal, but Natasha was initially hesitant.

"Malysh, this is important for your well-being. It can help you in dealing with your past, and remember, both Alexei and I will be there with you every step of the way," Milena reassured Natasha, gently trying to convince her to give therapy a chance.

"I understand its importance, but I'd rather dedicate my time fully to my education. I have a lot to catch up on since I missed out some years. Please, I'd rather not go to therapy," Natasha pleaded, her hopes resting on Milena's understanding.

Milena carefully considered her options, mindful not to push Natasha into something she had no interest in. She recognized that forcing Natasha into therapy could potentially cause more harm than good.

"Alright, no therapy for now," Milena began, noticing Natasha's readiness for a counterargument. "But," she continued, her tone gentle, "Malysh, please hear me out first." She sighed with relief when Natasha nodded.

"As your mother now, I bear the responsibility for your well-being. Let's find a compromise. How about during your summer break, you can see a therapist, perhaps once or twice a week? I know someone who can help us arrange this."

Natasha contemplated Milena's proposal deeply and eventually gave in.

"Alright, I'll see a therapist only during my summer break," Natasha said with a hint of defeat in her voice, dreading the possibility of her past being revisited, which brought her nothing but discomfort.

"Thank you, dear. I only want what's best for you, do you understand?" Milena reassured her.

"Yes, Milena," Natasha replied with a sense of acceptance.

"Dorogaya, I don't want to take up any more of your time. We will see you here for your birthday, yes?" Milena asked Natasha.

At that moment, Natasha realised that her birthday was just a month away, and she had already made a promise to her mother.

"Of course, I'll be there. I'm looking forward to seeing the changes that you have done at the orphanage," Natasha replied, though her enthusiasm was somewhat muted.

"I must thank you, both for your generous donations and your Dad's. They're making a real difference for the children in need," Milena acknowledged.

"No need to thank me, Mom. I have to give back somehow." Natasha said sincerely.

"You truly don't have to, but your generosity means a lot, not just to me, but to all the kids here," Milena reassured her.

Natasha still wasn't entirely accustomed to Milena's kind compliments, so she remained silent on the other end of the line. The call concluded a few minutes later, leaving Natasha alone with her thoughts. The same question that crossed her mind every day: "Where would I be without Milena?" She sighed deeply and returned to work, attempting to distract herself from dwelling on the past.

*

At 6 PM, Natasha's phone rang, and it was Wanda who was calling her.

"Wanda, is everything alright?" Natasha asked with concern in her voice.

"Yes, everything's fine. I was just wondering if you're done with work? Maybe we could meet up and head home together," Wanda suggested.

"I'm just wrapping up some reports, but I can drive over to your university instead. How does that sound, dear?" Natasha offered.

"Sure, that works! I'll be waiting outside the gate for you. See you later!"

Natasha ended the call and began packing her things. She had something special in mind for tonight, and she hoped Wanda wouldn't be too tired for it.

*

The two women returned home safely, and as they entered, Wanda wasted no time in getting started on preparing dinner. For Wanda, cooking was her way of expressing gratitude for everything Natasha did for her, and she firmly believed in the old saying, "The way to a person's heart is through their stomach."

"So, what's on the menu for tonight, Chef Wanda?" Natasha inquired playfully.

"I thought we could have chicken paprikash. Does that sound good to you?" Wanda asked, a hint of excitement in her voice.

"I'm actually in the mood for bending you over on that counter." Natasha mumbles to herself while she is scrolling through her phone.

"Huh? Did you say something?" Wanda was confused with whatever Natasha could have said.

"Nothing, I said chicken paprikash sounds good." Natasha smiled to herself hiding her devilish grin.

Dinner was fantastic as always. Wanda indeed has a natural talent with cooking but Natasha is impatient for her planned dessert.

"Detka, come over here, please."

Wanda promptly went to the couch and abandoned what she's doing in the kitchen as she immediately sat on Natasha's lap.

"I want to do something tonight and I hope you're open to it." Natasha is slowly caressing Wanda's thighs, teasing her way into making Wanda say yes.

"What is it?" Wanda asked with great curiosity.

"I badly want to fuck you with my cock. Would you like that?" Natasha went straight to the point with no hesitation.

Wanda's thoughts momentarily froze, a whirlwind of excitement and fear swirling within her as Natasha's proposal hung in the air. She would agree with whatever Natasha wants, there is no doubt about it. Wanda was acutely aware that this was the moment when Natasha would unleash her inner predator, and she willingly embraced the role of the willing prey.

"Yes, Miss. I would like that very much."

Natasha will never get tired of seeing how easily Wanda would get into her subspace. A simple command would make her all desperate and needy.

"Go to my room. I want you naked in my bed and make sure you are on your fours."

"Alright, Miss." Wanda stood hastily, her excitement is too obvious in the way she walks and squeezes her thighs.

"What a fucking slut." Natasha whispered to herself, so pleased with Wanda's obedience.

Natasha counted to 50 before heading up to her bedroom. She makes sure that she's in the right headspace before starting anything with Wanda.

Natasha opened the door and was delighted to see Wanda's ass facing her immediately.

"My my. Look at you, kitten. You sure do know how to follow instructions." Natasha needs to build up further Wanda's subspace in order for her to get what she wants.

"Do you know about safe word, Wanda?" Natasha inquired with Wanda since this is her first time.

"No, miss."

"But you do know about the traffic light system?" The older woman inquired even more.

"Yes, Miss. I do know about it."

"It could be applied here as well, if you say green, it means you enjoy what I am doing to you and we will proceed with it. Yellow means you want me to take it slow, and red means stop. I want you to decide your own safe word but I like the simplicity of the color system."

"I want my safe word to be krasnyy."

Natasha was almost not surprised by the chosen word and for Wanda to know the Russian language.

"That means red in Russian. Very well."

Natasha approached the closet where she hides her kinky accessories and reached up to retrieve her trusted harness and a thin rope. It's been a while since she used them and the thought of using them on Wanda thrills her to no end. She attached the harness on her hips and she is contemplating what size of dildo would be sufficient for tonight, since this Wanda's first time, she will use the 7-inch dildo. There's no doubt that she will make it fit through Wanda's tight pussy.

The older woman stood behind Wanda and placed a towel below Wanda's torso then spanked her ass with out any warning.

"Miss!" It made Wanda scream from her throat as the stinging pain in her ass came unexpectedly.

"I hope you know that I noticed every attempt you are making in touching me. Let this be a warning to never ever touch me without permission. Is that clear?" The sound of the second spank reverated inside the room.

Wanda'a eyes widened as her plans were easily busted by the older woman. "Yes, Miss! I'm sorry!"

"Hmm. Let's see about that."

Natasha has no consideration for foreplay tonight. She usually makes Wanda come first through her tongue before she fingers her. But tonight, Natasha would set a firm warning for the younger woman.

"Open your legs wider and put your hands behind your back." Wanda followed the instructions, Natasha grabbed the thin rope then started tying Wanda's wrist on a tight knot. She can't let Wanda's hand roam around her body anymore.

Wanda is easily aroused by Natasha and the obvious dominant stance that is being shown at the very moment which adds more stimulation on her head. Wanda heard the clicking nose and dared to look behind her. She saw Natasha lathering the dildo with a good amount of lubricant and the slow stroking movement made her squeeze her thighs for temporary pleasure.

Natasha positioned the toy in front of the younger woman's core. A sinister voice is whispering in Natasha's ear to penetrate Wanda immediately, however, this needs to be taken as gently as possible. She can go as rough as she wants once Wanda is adjusted anyway.

Natasha buried her cock as slowly as she can muster. Wanda groans at every inch that goes inside her and further stretching her pussy.

"Fuck! Miss! Shit! I don't think it will fit. You're so big– ahhh!" Wanda couldn't even finish her sentence as the pleasure consumes her sanity.

"Baby, you can take it. I will make it fit on this tight pussy of yours."

Wanda simply nodded and trusted Natasha with her pleasure.

Once the cock is all buried inside Wanda, Natasha took it out slowly and rammed back in making Wanda moan in wanton.

Natasha started her brutal thrust and did not slow down upon hearing Wanda's blissful whimpers.

"Natty, please! Slow down a bit. You're so— hmmp!" Wanda pleaded since she's too overwhelmed with the intense mixture of pleasure and pain.

"Huh? We are not slowing down, detka. I know you like being fucked like a whore with your ass on display like this." Natasha's cruel words are getting into Wanda's head which made her respond in an unexpected way.

"Yes yes! Mommy, please fuck me harder!"

Bingo. Natasha grinned like a madwoman that she is at the moment. Another theory has been tested right. This girl is going to be the death of her.

Natasha leaned forward, closer to Wanda and growled at her while she grabbed Wanda's hair, "Say it again for me, baby girl. Go on. Tell mommy how you like to fucked."

"Ahhhh! Mommy mommy! Fuck me like a slut that I am. Go faster, please!"

The bedroom is filled with Natasha's unforgiving thrusts combined with the sound of the slapping of flesh against one another. Natasha is gripping Wanda's hips so hard which is gonna leave a bruise right after.

Natasha's right hand then grabbed a fistful of Wanda's hair and pulled her closer to her chest. "What a fucking slut. Telling Mommy what she wants. You need to learn how to accept what is being given!" Natasha growled in Wanda's ear while she's still abusing her tight hole and her thrusts are unmerciful.

Wanda can no longer comprehend what is going on in her head as Natasha is hitting all the right places inside her. "Mommy, just like that. Please don't stop. I'm so close. Please please!"

"I wish I have a real dick right now. I bet your squeezing me so fucking hard. This pussy is mine to fuck. You understand?" Natasha emphasised her words by wrapping her left hand on Wanda's throat and choking the younger woman. She makes sure she's applying the correct pressure in order to make Wanda feel lightheaded.

"Fuck, yes! This pussy is yours ahh– Mommy! I'm cumming!"

"Cum on my dick, you fucking slut!" Natasha growled and continued her powerful thrusts which made Wanda squirt, intensifying the orgasm even further.

Natasha's movements slowed down eventually and pulled the toy out then removed it all together from her hips, also taking away the towel underneath Wanda. Taking a small damp towel, Natasha gently cleansed Wanda's thighs, carefully untied the knots that had previously bound Wanda's wrists and examed the faint red imprints they had left behind. Natasha then proceeded to apply a soothing lotion to Wanda's wrists to reduce the noticeable marks.

Wanda slumped on the bed and was silent for the first few minutes, trying to regain her wits and mind.

"Wanda, are you with me?"

Wanda found herself momentarily lost in thought, something had slipped her mind and mouth during their passionate moment.

"Wanda?" Natasha repeated, a hint of concern in her voice, as she started to become alarmed by Wanda's silence.

"I'm sorry," Wanda finally spoke up.

"What for, baby?" Natasha inquired with a gentle tone.

"I said something earlier. I didn't expect myself to say it," Wanda confessed.

Noticing Wanda's hesitation, Natasha probed further. "What did you say? I'm sure you said many things, but I'd like you to be more specific, sweetheart." Natasha shifted, lying on her side to face Wanda, who remained in the same position.

"Well, I, uh... I called you 'Mommy.' I feel so embarrassed about it," Wanda mumbled, hiding her face in the pillows and unable to meet Natasha's gaze.

"Detka, please, look at me," Natasha gently urged, and Wanda slowly lifted her face to meet Natasha's understanding gaze.

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with what you said. In fact, I like it very much," Natasha reassured Wanda gently while caressing Wanda's back.

"You do? You don't find it strange that I called you that?" Wanda asked, her uncertainty evident.

"No, baby. It is perfectly fine with me. You're perfect. I promise. So stop that pretty mind of yours from overthinking. Okay?"

"Alright. If you say so." Wanda replied with a small smile, feeling reassured.

Both women cleaned themselves separately as what happens every night. Tonight, Natasha made her warning clear to Wanda to refrain from touching her, and this warning is embedded in her mind. But Wanda can still try if she wants to, right?

"How was your day, baby?" Natasha initiated a conversation when they got back in bed since she's too keyed up after tonight's activities.

"Nothing much happened today. It was a slow day for me. But we had a transferee, her name is MJ. She looks familiar, and I couldn't quite place where I'd seen her before. So, I decided to approach her after our class," she explained.

"Interesting. How did that conversation go?" Natasha inquired.

"Do you remember the orphanage I told you about, the one in New Jersey?"

Natasha concealed her emotions as best as she could. "Yes, I recall. The one where you and Pietro stayed, yes?"

"That's the one. It turns out, MJ was there as well not long after Pietro and I arrived. But I don't think we ever became friends during our time there, since she was adopted."

"How long did you both stay at the orphanage?" Natasha tried to play pretend in her questions to appear interested.

"Well, we were placed there when we were 12 years old. Then, they enrolled us in a program to catch up on our education because we had missed out on so much. Then we left when we turned 18. So, in total, we spent 6 years there."

Changing the subject, Natasha asked, "So, where is Pietro now? I realise we haven't talked much about him lately." She wanted to steer the conversation away from the sensitive topic.

"We talk through the phone every now and then. He's a scholar since he is a race track runner in Michigan. Would you like to meet him one day?" Wanda asked enthusiastically.

"Sure, baby. I want to meet your twin brother of course."

"Thank you, Natty. You are the best." Wanda beamed, her happiness evident as she leaned in to plant a loving kiss on Natasha's lips. "I think we should get some rest now. You've completely worn me out tonight."

Natasha couldn't help but chuckle at Wanda's confession. "Alright, sleep it is. Good night, detka." She pressed a tender kiss to Wanda's forehead before adjusting herself in bed, positioning herself as the big spoon.

"Good night, Natty." Wanda drew Natasha's arm closer to her and slowly drifted into peaceful slumber.

As Natasha lay there, her thoughts began to drift, and she contemplated how long she could keep her past from Wanda. She'd noticed how openly Wanda wore her heart on her sleeve and looks at her like she's the best thing on earth while unaware of her checkered past. Wanda had a way of making her experience emotions she thought she wasn't capable of feeling. Wanda is like a radiant sun that disperses the darkness of her gloomy days, and, as cliché as it may sound, she truly embodies that sentiment.

However, a sense of fear loomed over Natasha, she dreaded the possibility that if Wanda were to ever discover the truth, she might choose to leave, run away from her and the tangled web of secrets that had defined Natasha's life.

It wasn't that Natasha was deliberately lying to Wanda. She was simply omitting important information that could potentially change or destroy their relationship. She held onto the hope that one day, she would gather the courage to share her past, to open up and reveal the parts of herself she'd kept hidden for so long. And in that moment, she could only pray to the heavens above that Wanda would understand and accept her, scars and all.

[unfortunately-obsessed]

All Things End

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader • Hurt no Comfort • AO3 link

In the end, all is quiet

You said many and many times to Miguel that being in love wasn't a weakness.

It was supposed to be easy. In-and-out, just trying to make a map of the warehouse Sinister Six were using. Empty room. Empty room. They've been doing some remodeling since last tim you've been there.

Just trying to get some pics. Maybe a manifest. Counting the number of goons. Your steps just like a mice's, soundless and light, using of the celling and vents to move undetected.

True to the word, you don't operate the same way most Spiders do. Peter B calls you sneaky and Jess slick, but Miguel respected you for not being reckless like that whole side of the multiverse.

The whiskey, rain and and knock-off cigars scent flooded your nose. Kraven and Sandman are playing poker over a wood box. Kraven got a Full House but you mentally bet on Sandman. Hah.

With the two as guards, you just needed to noiseless.

Empty room. Not empty room, filled with wire but nothing interesting. You had wondered what Doc Ock been planning now. Another empty room.

You don't know what hit you.

The hair in your neck raises, you can't feel your legs.

Mind goes blank with jasmine acid and white, room filled with gas and you weren't quick enough to dodge a kick to the mouth. You punch and cuss aloud before Kraken can lodge a knife on your throat.

Ears unable to hear and eyes unable to see for a sharp second. A tiny mystery. There's shouting and there's pain. Everybody has broken ribs by the end of it.

Your hand voracious raw against a face, so you fumble about what is up and what is down until Kraken is is either unconscious or close enough and there's sand on your lungs and socks.

Two seconds and hard cough is what it take for a metallic arm ragdoll you into a wall.

You bleed an unsurmountable amount.

When the fight is over and after you put Doc Ock to sleep, you hear sirens approaching. Crawling to a celling down the road, you throw up, head tripping.

It's disorienting and the sky doesn't have stars because, after all, you're in New York. The blinding lights are not from stars and your right side is all tender. And it smells like trash and oil. And you think of red eyes and pouty lips and a stubborn valiant man. You wish it to end faster.

Not reckless, huh. You wonder what went wrong and can't pinpoint it, but neither you can feel your fingertips, so all you think is never damage and concussion. Maybe you were just ill-prepared, payed the tool but couldn't pay the price. The shaking comes in waves.

You did say that being in love wasn't a weakness.

And it's true, which doesn't mean you also doesn't have to convince yourself.

Damn Ohio and Vermont. Hate New York the same amount you see it behind your eyelids. Kindness isn't free and both you and Miguel refused to put a name on this burning. You want to go home.

Sometimes the poem writes itself. Sometimes it doesn't need to be written. It untravelled all lungs.

Until the story ends all their heartbeats. Flickering matches. Teeth dripping lead.

Do you love Miguel? Not sure. Does it matter when you're bleeding? Unlikely.

A strange habit: Miguel sometimes travels half the multiverse to see why you weren't answering his calls. You hear him swallowing dry and panic in his eyes.

"M'fine," you say to him.

"You look like shit," he tells you, kneeling to be in your side, hands hovering over, unsure of what to do. Worried that holding you will cause more damage.

"Thanks," you say, calm despite the numbness growing each passing second. Moving was impossible on your current state. Instead, your throat burn at the sight of Miguel. "I can't feel my hands."

Even Miguel, a complete idiot on intersocial intelligence, notices the perfectly hidden edge on voice. You tell yourself that you'll sleep it off, perfectly tucking away the fear.

It's natural and inevitable. Miguel is calm despite himself. "It's alright," he says, voice smooth but deep, husky. Ah, you do love his voice. It could lull anyone to sleep. "You're going to be fine."

The story doesn't have a massage. The notion of it, itself, is ridiculous. In another life, we hold our hands together.

You scoff even if you tell yourself the same. Heart won't stop racing. His hand cupping your neck makes you almost believe it.

It's almost peaceful and quiet, and you can't hear the sirens or the city buzzling as it does. "I'm dying", you conclude, sharing it with him, like you do. At this point, there's not a piece of information you don't share with him.

Miguel's eyes grow wide, fast but you see it. "You're no-"

"Something's wrong, I'm not feeling pain," you say, throat dry and hurting, "I'm dying."

He says something to Layla, who toughly scans you with one droid. The conversation doesn't register on your mind. You place a hand over his.

His head snaps back to you, gaze over your bleeding body. "You lost blood," he tries, yet his voice wavered, "but you're not dying."

Tears. You're crying. His hands relax over your carotid, suddenly bare, calming your mind and breathes. Miguel's shoulders are tense, thumb caressing your cheek. When did you ever take the mask off?

Before throwing up, you think.

Finally, pain laces your head. Red spots on you suit, pooling, but the wound is to o big to stop the flowing. It's smearing him, too. You think, very clinically, that you could have tasted his lips if you both were not cowards.

A stupid mistake. You should have named what's between the two of you.

(You're dying and you can feel it. It's the bleedout and the heart going fast and Miguel denying it instead of saying you're an idiot if you think he'll let you die. It's the trembling and the getting harder to breath. It's the fact you're not in panic.)

He smells apple cinnamon pie and warm sweet home.

There's nothing he can do. Moving you may cause it to come faster. So you don't let him know how much it hurts to move at all. His stomach twists.

Miguel's instinct – always there to be blamed, making him unable to clearly process his thoughts, – is to reach out and engulf you on his arms. He moves slow, closer. He threads his fingers into your stained hair.

"I'm not stupid," you say to him, clenching at his other hand.

This declaration shocks him. As normally, Miguel can't hide the frown on his face. "I know you're not."

"No. I–" A few feverish moments pass. It hurts to breath. You might stare at him forever before blurting out, "Please kiss me."

Keeping you eyes open was starting to be a problem. The sky is spinning. All you feel is drozyness. Like you want to sleep. You want your bed.

"Sweetheart," he says, so slow and low you might have imagined it.

Hot, desperate tears streaked down your face. You couldn't keep appearances anymore, keep playing the waiting game with Miguel. You don't know what cause this pathetic display, but still wasn't worse than the numbness.

A gasp left your mouth as his lips pressed against yours. It settles deep within your chest, but all he probably taste is metal.

A low growl rumbled in your heart.

Why are you crying? It has leapt from my throat when we first spoke, alight when I first head your laughter, strong, hands gone rough with time. Your hands are trembling now.

Hungry mouth and lips. In the end, it's quiet.

Your face dropped the frown. Why are you crying? I cannot undo it. My heart under your palms, ribs de-boned and body peeled from skin. Glossy ruby eyes.

Sorry about the mess. Just hold me. In angry tears, never-mended flesh, and razor-sharp teeth, and sometimes I wondered about the needle edge of it. Guts half-spilled, and rocking waves.

Dear thing, we are bound by fate. I'll let you bring me anywhere.

Bleeding still, shining ribs.

Did you taste the best on the roof of my mouth?

A/N: If you like what I do, please consider supporting me and buying a coffee!

[glittter-vamp]

Ohio Is For Lovers | J.B

CHAPTER 7

Joe Burrow x Reader.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Mention of pregnancy. Explicit language.

Word count: 3,888

It's been almost two weeks now since you found out about Joe possibly becoming a father and you hadn't talked to him since. He still hadn't told you about the situation, Mariana told him you had been out of town for work so he had left you alone. You just couldn't believe that he would lie to you about this, sure you guys weren't serious but you were still having sex with the guy after all. Joe also completely threw away that new years game, you assumed it had been because of the news he got about him becoming a dad, which sucked for everyone else on the team and the fans. "Hey do you have aspirin? I have like a weird pain in my back from that stupid chair at work." Sasha asks you as you guys hang out in your living room having a wine down Wednesday without the wine. "It's in my bathroom in the medicine cabinet." You nod and she thanks you leaving to your room. "So, why are you so mopey?" Sasha asks coming to sit next to me. "Hm?" You hum. "You've been like not yourself for the past few days, what's up?" She asks. "Nothing, work just has my ass beat." You yawn. "Lie again." Sasha says and you roll your eyes. "It's nothing." You shake your head not wanting to get into your feelings right now. "Is it a certain football player?" She raises her eyebrow and you sigh knowing she's not going to let it go. "Okay, safe space time. Spilll your heart out!" She says turning towards you so you had her full attention. Sasha has always been one for deep talks even though she was the first one to make jokes and not be the serious one in our friend group.

"I don't know... I guess it bothers me that Joe still hasn't tried reaching out to talk about this whole baby thing, but I also feel like it's dumb to feel this ways because it's not like we're serious." You say. "I don't think it's wrong that you're feeling like that, just because you two aren't in a committed relationship doesn't mean him having a baby won't affect whatever it is you two have going on with each other. Like I can't imagine having your fun with him, building some sort of relationship... serious or not and then one day he's just like "so listen, I'm actually getting back together with my baby momma so bye" or worse that he's been two timing...which with men? Never surprising." She shakes her head.

"I guess you have a point, I just think maybe I'm being stupid cause we've only just started all this." You shrug. "Yeah but he's a sexual partner lying about something pretty big, I can see why the red flags are popping up to you." Sasha says. Before I could respond there was a knock on my door. You two look at each other confused since you weren't expecting anyone, Mariana was with Ja'Marr out of town because of some pre Super Bowl events and Peyton had to work late today and couldn't join us.

You get up from your couch and look through the peep hole and your stomach dropped immediately seeing who it was and you turn to Sasha giving her a stunned look. "Who is it?" She whispers getting another knock on the door. "Joe!" You whisper yell and her eyes widened. "I thought Mariana told him you were out of town?!" She whispers back. "That's what she told me!" You whisper back. There was yet another knock on the door. He definitely knew you were here and he was not going to leave.

"Open it!" Sasha says and you let out a big sigh. You compose yourself and open the door meeting face to face with Joe after a week and a half. "Uh, hey..." you say awkwardly. Joe looked completely unamused and frankly, like shit. He looked tired and washed out. "Can we talk?" Joe asks and you look back at Sasha who was looking at you two. "I have company over- actually it's getting late and I have work tomorrow. I'll talk to you later?" Sasha says getting up and grabbing her stuff. "Oh um, okay." You nod mentally screaming at her, to not leave. She gives you a hug and whispers good luck before she turns and gives a Joe a dirty look pushing past him. JOe looked at her confused but didn't say anything.

"Now can we talk?" Joe asks and you sigh letting him through the door and closing it behind it. "Say what you have to say." You sigh. "What the hell is your problem? Why did you lie about being out of town?" Joe asks and you scoff. "My problem?! MY PROBLEM? Are you insane?" You say back in disbelief. "Yeah your problem!? You're hot and cold with me, we agree to being friends with benefits, have sex without protection for gods sake! And then you practically ghost me and have your best friend lie to my face and say that you're busy out of town with work?! I know we aren't serious or anything but I don't appreciate being lied to" He argues back which made your blood boil hearing those last words. This man was about to get dropkicked, you thought to yourself.

"You know, you have some fucking nerve to call out anyone's lies at the moment with the one you've been keeping from me." You cross your arm looking at him and he looks at you confused for a second before his face drops. "Y/N, That's different- The hell it is! You're angry towards my lying about going away for work and not talking to you when I didn't but it's totally different to lie to me about having a fucking kid with the woman who had me being slut shamed online for weeks? God, hooking up with you has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever done." You say rubbing your temples. "It's a complicated situation Y/N! I don't even know if it's mine, she was cheating on me first remember? Whose to say she's just not fucking with me? And we just started messing around with each other, what would you have done if I just said "Oh, by the way, I might become a dad in a few months with another woman but we should keep fucking each others brains out anyway?" He says sarcastically making you scoff. "I would of respected you a bit more for being an adult and communicating with me what was going on, instead of having your friend and teammate be a man and tell me because even he thought I should be respected enough to know! If I got pregnant and didn't know who the father was, I'm not gonna sit here and pretend I'm not and keep having sex with you! Which I know that's what you were going to do with me!" You snap back shutting him up.

"I'm sorry Y/N... I should of handled this situation better. I just felt like everything was finally going really good between us and this was going to fuck all that up." Joe sighs looking at you with eyes filled with sadness. "Well lying to me about things isn't going to ever help you Joe." You say to him. "Can we just over?" He says stuffing his hands the pockets of his sweats. He was wearing some weird rainbow pant, a blue hoodie and a beanie now that you were really looking at him. "I don't think us starting over every time we have an issue is the answer but I can settle on just being friends right now, I still have some stuff I need to think about. Like you said, all of this is a lot." You answer to him which you weren't lying about. You didn't know how you felt still having sex with a person who had no issue lying to you about serious stuff. "That's fine." He nods solemnly but you couldn't help but be distracted by his outfit at the moment.

"I'm sorry but dude what the hell are you wearing? You look like Eminem in 8 mile if he had a crossover with the wizard of oz?" You snort, Joe looking down at his outfit. "I like it." He shrugs not being phased by your comment and you chuckle shaking your head.

"I'm sorry about your loss by the way, that game was pretty rough." You say to Joe and he takes a deep breath letting it out. "Thanks, that was probably the worst game of my career so that's fun to deal with." He sighs. "You'll get it next season." You nod and he gives you a small smile. "I should get going, but I'll text you? Promise, no more lies between us?" He asks sounding of more of a question than a statement. "Yeah." You nod walking him out. "Goodnight." He says giving you once last look. "Goodnight." You respond before shutting the door and locking it. What a fucking night.

***********************

A few weeks later:

"That movie was so fucking stupid." Peyton says as we walk out of the theater. "You only think it's stupid because they killed off your favorite character." You laugh sipping on what's left of your soda before throwing it out in the nearest trash bin. "Exactly!" Peyton says. You and Peyton had decided to go to the movies on a nice Saturday afternoon since Sasha and Mariana were both busy and you both hadn't seen each other since New Year's Day. "Wanna get some gelato? My treat." You ask Peyton walking back to your car. "I could use a cheat day." Peyton agrees. You drive to the gelato place near the theater and park. "Only we would come and eat gelato in the middle of winter." Peyton says as we enter the empty shop. "This is the perfect time to eat it, it won't melt." You smirk. You two order some gelato and pay for it taking a seat by the window.

"So, how's life?" Pertain asks taking a bite of the gelato. "My job is opening up another branch in Rhode Island, they offered me a transfer with better pay." You say and Peyton's eyes go wide. "You're leaving Cincy bitch!?" He asks. "I haven't decided but it sounds kind of nice. Something new." You shrug taking a bite of my ice cream. "If you leave me, I'll die. I love Mariana and Sasha but those girls are way to boy crazy for me." Peyton says fake crying making you laugh. "You're so dramatic! You can visit me anytime if I choose to leave but Ohio doesn't feel permanent to me." You sigh. "Not to sound like an ass...but are you feeling like you need to leave because of the whole Joe thing?" Peyton asks. "It's part of it, I still get looks in groceries stores & im sure any day now news will break about his ex-girlfriends pregnancy so I'm sure that whole thing that happened the night we met will blow up again... I just didn't sign up for that." You shake your head. "That's reasonable. When that first happened I had a few journalists in my DM's trying to get information about you for the tabloids." Peyton shakes his head. "And you didn't tell me?!" You ask shocked. "No, you were going through enough." Peyton says unapologetic which made you roll your eyes. "You're annoying." You say making him laugh. You two finish your ice cream and leave walking back to your car when Peyton says something. "No way." He says stopping in his tracks. You look at where he was looking at and spot Joe across the street getting out of his car along with his ex girlfriend. Neither of them seemed content to be together. Staring at them Joe spots you and you can see the color leave his face. Peyton shakes his head at him and you look away and get into the car, Peyton following you. "You okay?" He asks. "Yeah why wouldn't I be?" I ask turning on my car. "I can keep my word and call my group of gay friends." Peyton says making you snort as you drive off. "Don't be dramatic." You giggle. "It's okay to be bothered- I'm not. It's weird but I can't be bothered and I'm not." You say continuing the drive. But as much as you said those words to yourself, you were bothered by what you just saw.

************************* After that whole weird run in with Joe, you made your way home after dropping Peyton off at his. You were in your apartment now and you couldn't stop thinking about seeing Joe with his ex or whatever she is. It made you glad that you decided not to continue having sex with him if they were that friendly to be riding with each other on a Saturday evening.

As you sat on your couch watching a re-run of The Office, your phone vibrates next to you. You pick it up and see that it was Joe sending me a text.

Joe: Hey, can we talk?

You sigh not really wanting to get into it right now with him.

You: If it's about today, that isn't none of my business.

Joe: You said we can remain friends and I really need a friend right now. Can you come over? Please, I'll send you gas money. 

You debate for a moment but for some reason you couldn't say no to him.

You: I'll be there soon.

Is all you reply. You get up from the couch and throw on some warm clothes and shoes. It was late and freezing cold outside tonight. You drive all the way to Joe's, once again the door flying open before you could ring the doorbell. "Gotta stop doing that." You mutter walking in and he chuckles.

"I made us hot chocolate... thanks for driving over here. I really appreciate it." Joe says as you follow him to the kitchen. "So what's up? Need help with the wedding planning?" You ask trying to lighten the mood and he gives you an annoyed look. "I think she's bullshitting me." Joe says handing you the hot mug. "Why do you say that?" You ask taking a sip of the hot chocolate which was surprisingly really good.

"I agreed to talk to her today face to face, that's why you saw us together and she just seems like she's lying." Joe says leaning on the counter in front of you. "Lying about the pregnancy?" You ask. "No, but lying about that I'm father. She went from, 'I think it might be you, to 'You're the dad and I know'. He says and you nod not really knowing what to say or how to feel about all this information. "She's what, 32 weeks now? I did the math. She was away on a girls trip 32 weeks ago, so she said and after that I was out of town for a week and a half for work stuff... we didn't have sex for two weeks...probably longer because that when the cheating rumors started and we were fighting every other day. How would it be mine?" Joe asks and you sigh. "We cant determine anything until the baby is here and you can get a paternity test done, Joe. The best thing you could do is get legally prepared in case she gives you trouble to obtain that test or has some trick up her sleeve." You tell him. Joe was definitely going through it right now, you did feel bad. I couldn't imagine having a baby with someone who cheated on you.

"The thing is...what if it's not mine and I'm over here being there for them both when she's giving birth and stuff. That's not fair to me." Joe says. "If that ends up being the case it really isn't fair but what if it does end up being your kid and you miss that special moment of when he or she is brought into this world? I think it's better safe than sorry." You say and Joe takes a deep a breath sighing. "I should of left her immediately after I found out she was cheating." He mutters. "I didn't know you stayed." You raise an eyebrow. "I very stupidly blamed myself for her actions because of how I was never home and then when I realized there was no excuse for what she did and I got angry... I did what I did because I wanted to get back at her." Joe says giving you a look filled of regret as you sipped your hot chocolate.

"Have you told your parents about all this?" You ask changing the subject not wanting to talk about what happened between you guys when you first met again. "Yeah... I don't think I've ever seen them so disappointed in me." He sighs. "My sister went through something similar, she was dating this guy back when I was in college who the whole family just hated for her, he treated her like garbage and cheating on her with her best friend. They finally broke up and a few weeks later found out that she was pregnant. She decided to keep it and my parents were furious, so were the siblings but we were there for her much more than my parents were. Fast forward a few years later and my parents adore that grandchild and she's happily engaged to a man that actually respects and loves her." You shrug.

"I'm glad things worked out for your sister and nephew or niece but, that's not how I pictured becoming a dad. I'm still not even sure if I wanted kids and dating at my age with a kid isn't gonna be easy." He scoffs which makes you snort. "Joe, you're a hot millionaire quarterback. You could have 6 kids with different women and you'd still have a larger dating pool than most guys. Look at nick cannon, dude is on baby number 68 with baby momma 54 and the women and kids just keep coming. All he does is rap battles and go on podcasts." You say making him laugh.

"Okay, maybe you're right but still this is going to change things." He shakes his head. "It is! But you don't have to go through it alone. You have friends and family that will be there for you." You nod. "I know but I don't even know where to start, the baby will be here in two months and I have no idea what to do." Joe says brushing his fingers through his hair which you've noticed has gotten a bit longer than usual. You weren't mad at it.

"Okay, follow me." You say hopping off the bar chair and heading upstairs. Joe giving you and look of confusion but he doesn't hesitate. You walk over to the closet guest bedroom that was to his bedroom and turn the lights on. You noticed even though it was tidy he had a bunch of shoe boxes stacked in here. "Okay, this here can be their nursery. The crib can go here, changing table here, maybe a rocking chair here. Baby cam up here, toys over here with a play pen and a dresser over here." You say finishing off and Joe looks at you in an amused way. "But we don't even know if the baby is mine so why would I spend time and money on the baby if I don't know." Joe says and you sigh. "Joseph, you spent thousands of dollars on me when you bought be those earrings not knowing what was going to happen to us why is it an issue for you to do the same for someone that might actually be your child?" You ask and he bites his lip nervously having nothing to say because you were right. "So, as I was saying...this would be a great room for them. It's close to yours and it's quiet and comfortable." You nod looking around before you turn back to him and you notice him staring at you in a way you've never seen before.

"What? Do I have chocolate on my face?" You ask and he chuckles shaking his head no. "I've just missed you putting me in my place." He says and you playfully roll your eyes. "I'm serious, I know I can be an ass sometimes and I appreciate you calling me out on stuff, especially...when you don't have to." Joe says inching closer to you. Your breath hitching in your throat. You can smell his aftershave on him and the hot chocolate he was drinking. Even when he's pissed you off, he still drove you mad. "Can I be honest with you?" Joe asks feeling his hands gently grab your waist. All you could do was nod as you got lost in those beautiful blue green eyes of his.

"I only brought up the whole the whole friends with benefits thing because I was scared of you rejecting me for anything more serious." He says and you raise an eyebrow. "Why are you telling me this?" You whisper. "Because I'm tired of all the lies and bullshit. I've liked you since I've met you, even if I fucked it up and showed otherwise." He says laying his forehead on yours closing his eyes. "Joe, I think you're just feeling really vulnerable right now because of the last few weeks in your life. You don't mean that." You say and he snorts. "You haven't left my mind since the second party we were at." Joe says. "That just could of been guilt because of the whole crazy tabloid and social media rumor stuff." You say and he leans back looking at you unamused. "Stop doing that. I'm being honest with you right now about my feelings, stop making excuses for what I've felt and how I'm feeling now." Joe says making you bite your lip.

"Sorry... I guess I kind of suppressed some of my own feelings too but Joe... C'mon what are we doing here. You might have a baby and our whole whatever this is we have going on, has been so up and down. I don't think a relationship is smart." You say to him and he nods looking down at his feet. "I know, I really wish things were different. I'm not asking anything of you but I just needed to tell you how I really felt. I at least owed you that." Joe says and you give him a small smile. "Look at you, being emotionally mature. Dad thing already hitting you." You laugh and he gives you an unamused look. "Shut up, come on. Let's go down stairs, I need help picking out stuff for this so called baby room." Joe says and you chuckle nodding. "But, before we go...just one kiss?" Joe asks with hopeful eyes and you chuckle. "Joe..." you sigh. "One!" He mouths holding up one finger and you grab the back of his neck giving him a sweet tender kiss filled with more emotion than you anticipated. It felt so wrong but yet, so right.